Last Saturday night, on a lonely stretch of Sunset Boulevard in between Echo Park and Los Angeles’s downtown, the new showroom and art space, Iko Iko, opened for business. Located in a building complex with mostly “For Rent” notices in the other windows, Iko Iko’s hot pink letter signage and sizeable crowd leaking from the front door made it hard to miss on an otherwise empty block. Inside the space, platters of homemade pink and black frosted cupcakes and little quiches were served on low pedestals. The artist P.J. Risse deejayed, at times with a piece of black lace around his eyes, not far from an eerily accurate mask of Faye Dunaway he had made and which lay in a box of paper flowers. The sculpture was a befitting play on the theme of the night, “Still Life/Nature Morte.”

An exposed brick wall was hung with Vivian Joyner’s meditative, photographic studies of hotel room interiors. Other artworks on display were Natascha Snellman’s arresting photo collages (I liked the portrait of Snellman’s brother especially—he sits, dressed in scraps of fur, his long hair around his shoulders, holding up a little brown dog to face the camera, salamis strewn on the floor beneath his feet) and Jeremy Redina’s intricate typewriter ink on paper “weavings” as well as watercolors by Courtney Rice and work by Jennifer Boysen.

People mingled in the space, checking out a clothes rack against the far right wall with pieces from Rowena Sartin’s new spring collection (romantic white smock tops, black lacey skirts and dresses, pretty flower patterned leggings). Others gathered around two opposing tables near the door stacked with curious accessories: a brass cuff bracelet made by Win Bowers from a cast chicken foot; long pieces of felted human hair and a perfectly intact felted hair bun by San Francisco’s Ashley Helvey; Rowena Sartin’s handmade wood boxes topped with assorted, sparkling rock specimens such as Peruvian pyrite and native copper; jewelry designer and artist Hannah Keefe’s exquisite, multi-clasped necklaces; vintage books on design; loose feathers; and scraps of petrified bark found in Elysian Park.

Iko Iko is the brainchild of Kristin Dickson, creator and designer of the Rowena Sartin line. Dickson, who has a workspace in the back, initially planned to use the entirety of her space for work, but found the prospect overwhelming. Instead she has created a sort of test lab for images, objects and design — inspired in part by old curiosity shops — that contextualize her clothes and help both to fuel and reflect her creativity. If the contents of Iko Iko hint at a lifestyle as well as an aesthetic, it is definitely a darkly whimsical one. The artists and designers in the show are mostly local to Los Angeles and displays will change every 12 weeks. Soon the space is set to hold events such as screenings, performances and workshops. And on top of all this, the clothes are really cool too. As I was leaving, I knew I’d be back. I had my eye on some of those leggings.

Images courtesy Refinery 29 and Natascha Snellman.

Photographer Vivian Joyner debuts a gingerly edited body of portraits of her mother in My Mother, Not Myself: Portraits of Amy Joyner, at Cal Arts L Shaped Gallery in Los Angeles. Despite their clarity, her photographs have a painterly quality to them: One mostly red, one white, blue, black, and green, each tells a color story that rivals the interpersonal relationship depicted. The photographs are set within a mother-daughter getaway to the Greenbrier Hotel in West Virginia, a family favorite. Its grounds and rooms are lush. Joyner has an obvious preoccupation with the throw-back opulence of the hotel interior, but the main focus is her mother.

Joyner’s mother fits the conventions of society lady, philanthropist and general woman-of-influence as, in one photograph, she stands poised in cobalt wool skirt suit in a matchy-matchy room of upholstery and curtains. As the center of the exhibition, this is Mrs. Joyner as she is known. She makes an effort to let down her guard for her daughter as the shoot continues: stocking-toed and approachable on plush carpeting; in a white hotel bathrobe sandwiched between shower and vanity; clutching her fur as the car door is opened, her ring turning to the side as if too large. Her daughter is working to dissolve her façade (for Mrs. Joyner, this goes as far as face-made and hair-coiffed). But regardless of put-on and polish, Vivian triumphs in peeling away the persona of an individual she may or may not identify with.