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.