Ramiken

Ramiken can feel like a hiding place for strange, beautiful relics, quietly waiting for the world to end. Walk down Grand Street, and you might miss it. It's tucked down an alleyway behind a 1950s shopping arcade. Its one-way mirror windows make the place look like a police station.

The artists here believe terror can be a source of delight, that wonder can show up as unease. Their work shows it. Creatures made from luminous glass glow like ghosts. Domestic scenes flare with sickly, irradiated colors. Recycled rifles, reshaped into spiky humanoids, seem ready to stir and walk.

Everything is born of care and decay, and the combination is what makes it impossible to look away. Strip away the brutality of the surface, and what's left underneath is raw human feeling, exposed.

Mike Egan started the gallery in the Fall of 2009, in a rat-filled basement on Clinton Street. It quickly became known for the parties. He called it Ramiken Crucible, a pseudonym he'd used for years to sign his own work. The name comes from a misspelling of ramekin, the small dish used to bake crème brûlée. A vessel where elements meet under high heat, and something new comes out. He shortened it to Ramiken later.