Liz Craft’s work is commonly labeled as “psychedelic” or “surreal,” but this is a faulty prescription. Sculpted bronze skeletons ride high atop their hogs, plaster princesses permanently slumber upon elaborately carved couches, and metallic women’s legs gradually mutate into spindly tree branches. Chunky snippets of rainbow yarn strands, metal grates, and cast detritus are haphazardly assembled, forging clownish faces that seem alien and vulgar, yet also vaguely familiar. While these images appear like mystic hallucinations, they also recall purely commonplace associations, and eventually shift from the phantasmagorical to the domestic. Her images are derived from a place of authenticity, and the enchanting unpredictability of experience; the cast of characters found within life’s great eccentric performance of simply being. Craft’s adept use of her own experiences in Venice Beach and multi-cultural allusion fabricates a whimsical pastiche of ourselves – her subtle tweaking of reality merely lifting the curtain on our eternal macabre theater.