A sculpture of a dog seated like a human being stares down at passersby from atop the storefront. Perched above the body of a mannequin at the entrance is a doll that looks like it might be Chucky’s girlfriend: it silently announces the business hours. Curiosity leads you to enter, and you encounter more and more things to see. On the staircases that lead you down to the basement, there are various objects on display, made by the artist-owner’s own hand. Just inside, you'll see the owner at work, so engrossed in his projects that he may not even notice you entering. It's understandable. Once you enter, an incredible, almost unfathomable quantity of pictures and accessories, installation art pieces and subsequent derived merchandise overwhelm the space. It is almost inconceivable that all this is the work of a single man. You must abandon the thought that this is a shop, and instead convince yourself that you are visiting a gallery. If you see a picture or work of art that you’d like to possess, you can quietly inquire as to the price of this thing. There are irregular holidays, and irregular flea markets. There a liberated, topsy-turvy air to the general affair—as befits an artist’s lair.