Timothy Cummings skipped art school and taught himself to paint, honing his craft by taking cues from the Old Masters and soaking up the Spanish Catholic and Native American imagery of his Albuquerque hometown. From this strange brew of influences, Cummings concocts portraits of naïve creatures who hover somewhere between the disturbing sensuality of a Balthus nymphet and the plastic creepiness of a Bellmer doll — with a little Rembrandt gravity and El Greco mannerism thrown in for good measure. Waifs with wide, soulful eyes masked in lace and feathers flit through his tableaux, resembling guests at a Venetian ball or a surreal Victorian tea party.