Along with singed upholstery and a tragic number of floaters, the aftermath of any kickass party can also include a small army of derelicts shacked up on couches, chairs, and toilets. When you're talking about Goldmine Shithouse, consider that the before-math
While you read this, a 3-artist mineralogically/ scatologically dubbed team (flown in from LA and NY) is knee-deep in their 2wk literal residency at the Mission's new McCraig, Welles & Rosenthal gallery, feverishly creating edgy mixed media work for its debut show, and ramping up for the accompanying raucous party. Up til that event, stop by the gallery anytime, day or night, and you'll witness GS in action: they might be brainstorming on their trove of city junk (books/trash/whatever), or putting that junk to use with the help of all the tequila they've demanded for their "labor" (note: given their schedule/payment method, you might walk in on naptime). The culminating blowout promises to be a messy blowout (kegs, tequila, GS claiming they're "taking Jägar back") where you can bring anything and have GS screen print it with their old designs or something created on the spot; their style's diverse, but the darkly comedic paintings/drawings/collages often ruminate on "death, ladders to nowhere, and bunnies" -- basically, a Shel Silverstein book
In the real aftermath they'll tidy things up, and McGraig, Welles & Rosenthal'll officially open with a full show of whatever comes of GS's madcap romp -- what better way to drive off stragglers than to have them wake up and find themselves in an art gallery?