Artists have hijacked a gorgeous home for an evening of exhibitions, live painting, music, and general debauchery. This is the fourth Art Farm house party, organized by Sean O'Feery. It's one node on a network of guerrilla art spaces across the nation. When I arrive, mere drops of liquor remain in a kitchenscape of vacant bottles emptied by the hundred or so mouths before mine. Tequila is all that's left, so I fill my glass and make my way through the crowd.
"That's where we shot her," says artist Ryan Ward, aka Henry, pointing to the corner of the room. I'm talking with the "redneck-hippie-teddy-bear" about his latest video collaboration. I watch a naked girl wash his painted name off her body in reverse (feeling a little angry), then see his bare ass trembling as a can of cold fresh paint is thrown on him (feeling better). He will later tell me of his painting dedicated to Regina Hackett—a colossal Johnny Cash giving the finger from his friend's garage door.
In the basement, a drunk and handsy collector tells me, "I sell money, and lots of it." He rambles about his available wall space to the up-and-coming artists, calling on that old conundrum: To what extent does art serve to decorate walls, and how deeply are these young artists implicated? Out back by the fire, I hear rumors of a pig roast at Art Farm 5 in May. Nearby, the keg sputters. Despite my relative sobriety, the people are interesting and the party is a success.
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