Strewn with waggish details of high society – a french bull dog lounging atop an Eames chair, an antique Porsche parked in the living room – the collages and dog sculptures that spring from the imagination of Jackie Fuchs invite the viewer, with a series of visual winks, to momentarily delight in the absurdity and artifice of the blue-chip contemporary art world. We all know what she is referencing. Her scenes are glamorous but, somehow, not entirely fun–like a fancy party you would go to just to snoop through the big house. The figures, too, seem to occupy the space as art objects. Fuchs’ images, if taken seriously, offer a kind of Hirstian dystopia of the contemporary art community. Hers is an all-too-familiar world in which art is, like an Hermés bag, a symbol of wealth, status, and certain kind of cultural literacy — something to be hung above a mid-century lamp, gazed from behind Chanel sunglasses, and instagrammed. Her work is definitely recognizable and relatable, and collected.