Sarah Sarchin
Ringer
August 4th – September 17th, 2022

Step with me, through a heavy cream curtain, into a department store dressing room. My mother is staring at me in a three-way angled mirror. Imagine this as a melancholic paradigm around which your identity is based.

A yolky florescent light, a popcorn ceiling, a salesgirl in the curtain gap. Having to appear is embarrassing even as an exercise.

The idea of visiting a restaurant fills Brigitte Bardot with dread: “People will come up to me. They’ll be watching what Brigitte Bardot is eating, how she holds her fork. They will ask for yet another photo. I have never refused. But I still can’t stand being watched. Certain people want to embrace me, to touch me.”

My mother and I look away as I switch tops. And now in the plaid that replaces tie-dye, I see it, how life could expand endlessly, a shining freeway to a new existence. Rendering me a series of many-angled gestures in previously unimaginable repose.

It’s never just a mannequin, the saying goes. (People who find dead bodies always think it’s a mannequin at first.)

~ text by Beaux Mendes

Sarah Sarchin is a painter living in Los Angeles. Recent solo exhibitions include Grice Bench and Sean's Room, both in Los Angeles, and the Chan Gallery at Pomona College. She received her MFA from the University of California, Los Angeles, and her BA from the University of Washington.

Four paintings are hung in a gallery space.

A painting of colored stones is hung in front of a large window. A painting of a female chest disappearing into a red brick background is hung on the wall. A red brick column separates the window and the wall.

Three paintings are hung in the gallery. A stack of posters are on the floor.

Three paintings are hung on the wall. A painting of gray tie-dye patterns, a painting of colored rocks, and a painting of a female portrait.

On the left wall hung a painting that looks like a drawing of a female figure on a piece of paper with a corner folder. On the right wall hung a painting of gray tie-dye patterns.

A painting of a female chest disappearing into a red brick background is hung on the wall. — *Bricks, tits*, 2022
20 x 20 in
Oil on linen

A small painting of gray tie-dye patterns — *Black and white tie dye no. 1*, 2022
14 x 11 in
Oil on canvas

A painting of colored stones. — *Rock wall no. 2*, 2022
16 x 14 in
Oil on linen

A painting that looks like a drawing of a female figure on a piece of paper with a corner folder. — *Drawing of Brigitte Bardot*, 2022
30 x 24 in
Oil on canvas

A large painting of gray tie-dye patterns — *Black and white tie dye no. 3*, 2022
24 x 20 in
Oil on canvas

A painting of colored stones is hung in front of a large window. — *Rock wall no. 1*, 2022
16 x 14 in
Oil on linen

View from outside of the gallery–the back of the painting hung in front of the window inside the gallery has a photograph stuck in the stretcher bars. The photo is a portrait of a woman with a cigarette in her mouth. — *Rock wall no. 1*, 2022
16 x 14 in
Oil on linen

A stack of posters sit on the gallery floor. A sketch of a naked female figure is on the poster, with information about the exhibition printed at the bottom.

A stack of posters sit on the gallery floor. The back of the poster is showing. A short text is printed on the back of the poster. — Step with me, through a heavy cream curtain, into a department store dressing room. My mother is staring at me in a three-way angled mirror. Imagine this as a melancholic paradigm around which your identity is based.
A yolky florescent light, a popcorn ceiling, a salesgirl in the curtain gap. Having to appear is embarrassing even as an exercise.
The idea of visiting a restaurant fills Brigitte Bardot with dread: “People will come up to me. They’ll be watching what Brigitte Bardot is eating, how she holds her fork. They will ask for yet another photo. I have never refused. But I still can’t stand being watched. Certain people want to embrace me, to touch me.”
My mother and I look away as I switch tops. And now in the plaid that replaces tie-dye, I see it, how life could expand endlessly, a shining freeway to a new existence. Rendering me a series of many-angled gestures in previously unimaginable repose.
It’s never just a mannequin, the saying goes. (People who find dead bodies always think it’s a mannequin at first.)
*~ text by Beaux Mendes*

Exterior view of the gallery–a storefront window with floor to ceiling windows. 6 paintings are hung in the gallery.