I never liked parties. During my second birthday, I cried for hours while the adults passed out slices of cake to the unnamed kids riding the pony my parents had rented (yes, I was that girl, and I’m very sorry). In college, I became known for taking the “French leave,” walking out on keggers before midnight without so much as a wave goodbye. I always wound up at home, alone in front of the mirror, scouring my mascara off and wishing I’d stayed home.
Most people don’t hate parties like I do. At a good one, anything can happen. A full-scale bacchanalia that rivals Belshazzar’s feast (or even Andrew Jackson’s infamous cheese party) promises to replace your buttoned-up Superego with its rowdy but repressed cousin, the Id, if only for a few hours. Still, even Jay Gatsby admitted that his Dionysian Saturday-night blowouts were a self-imposed mask disguising the real man underneath—a strategy that failed him spectacularly in the end. Wearing a public-facing alter ego is a highwire act none of us can maintain for long. Eventually, as the night wears on (and the empties pile up), the gap between our two personas either converges or breaks apart before our eyes in the bathroom mirror.
In our last exhibition of the year, we drop the disguise and take a moment to reflect before jumping headfirst into holiday bashes, party personas, and a new year. The works in The After Party offer a window into the quiet, sober moments that sink in once the party’s over and everyone’s gone home.
View The After Party via the button below, then scroll down to learn more about the artists in this exhibition.
Late-Night Mirror
First stop post-party? The bathroom mirror. In “Flopping Flutter,” painter John Sproul imagines himself atop a mountain of bodies and squashed limbs, wondering whether he’s always been a decent person. Meanwhile, emerging Minneapolis artist Kendall Laurent explores external and internal perception in “Reflective Filter,” an eerie self-portrait that links identity dysphoria with our culture’s social media obsession.
Equally compelling is the work of New York-based oil painter Joyce Polace, who uses sickly, swirling greens in “Memory” to evoke a sense of chaos that lingers in the mind. In contrast, Shanice Johnson’s raw, red-faced watercolors confront viewers with the ugly emotions that surface when we’re alone and vulnerable at night's end.
Stopped Clock
In the wee hours of the morning, time slows down. Svetlana Dubkova captures the “stopped-clock” illusion in “Crashing,” an eye-popping emerald and crimson work with existential undertones. Painter April Bermudez puts a sanguine spin on angst in “Stood on a Hill Too Long,” an austere but breezy reminder to appreciate the little things in life. In her site-specific installation “My Future, My Current, and My Past,” Seoul-born artist Jay Lee pauses to celebrate the stages of her ongoing metamorphosis, saying, “Our memories may fade over time and become fractions of images as if old paint on a wall peels off; Our bodies and spirits remember who we are and who we are becoming.”
Painter Erik Parra reassembles an interior from memory in “Grande Mesa,” a tranquil acrylic scene that belies its patchwork inspiration. In her dreamlike sculpture “The Saline Mirage,” SoCal artist Aazam Irilian blurs the boundaries between “memory and the unknown,” creating a moment of stillness that “punctuates the chaos of life.”
Take Two for the Pain
Don’t forget the ibuprofen and a Texas-sized glass of water on your bedside table. If that doesn’t do the trick, Gisèle Giraud’s “Pepto” might. Or consider Kim Kyne Cohen’s “Star Mirror”—its wobbly base, pink frame, and funky yellow stars could soothe even Gatsby’s bruised ego after another party without Daisy.
Still, Olivia Pedigo reminds us that “there is comfort in isolation and our relationship with our objects” in her oozing 3D rendering of a nightstand, “Things I Can’t Remember.” Appropriating a pictograph from the Wong-Baker pain rating scale, new media artist Max Pulchalsky created “Level Four Pain Patch” after being diagnosed with a rare bone disease. “Level four pain is considered moderate pain, which interferes significantly with daily living,” says Max of the digitally embroidered patch. “When deeply involved in activity, it can be ignored for a period of time, but the pain is enough that adaptation to it is impossible—a slow, incessant gnawing, banal in its perniciousness.”
Dreamland
It’s time to hit the pillow and head to Dreamland when all else fails. Sleep soundly on Cydney M. Lewis’ “Pillow of Dreams,” a plush sculptural piece inspired by headrests used throughout Africa and Asia to preserve elaborate hairstyles. Or curl up with Sharon Havelka’s cocoon-like “Ohh,” a cozy work created from a vintage bath towel. Lisa Waud’s equally inviting “Hibernation”—a glowing installation made of forged branches—offers visitors a pause in the transition between seasons.
In “Bedroom in June,” LA painter Kim Marra “deconstructs visual references to places and objects to reassemble them and create new dreamlike and surreal environments.” Unable to sleep in their bedroom (or anywhere), Morgan Syring wanders an empty highway with a blanket in tow in an untitled performance piece that explores the liminal space of the “blue hour” before dawn.
All photos published with permission of the artist(s); featured graphics for The After Party by David Schwartz.
