Joy Kiln
The walls are bedecked with paintings in the same style: arms, legs, noses and eyeballs are elongated, bent, and wiggly. It's as if this entire fictional cosmos were wrapped up in a game of Twister, where the circles of color have exploded in every direction and the delightful dream characters perform a manic dance as they wait for the spinner to land on the next move. Meanwhile, we, the spectators, are held in rapt suspense to see what is imminent: total collapse, radiant naïve enlightenment, or, perhaps, both simultaneously.