With viscous rivers of paint and delicate black lines, Amy Mayfield conjures phantasmagorical realms that are sensuous and chaotic, sinister yet vaguely winsome. In her latest exhibition, the border between her world and ours is giddily precarious. Her chromatic caverns seem to have spilled out into the gallery. A manic rainbow of floor tiles fills the room, jagged swaths of color rise up the walls, and freestanding sculptures of poured sludge look like tinted stalagmites. Meanwhile, these shapes and colors reappear around the corner as a saw-toothed stack of books.