Jesse Browner wrote in the Winter 2000-2001 issue of nest magazine:
From the street you step through an anonymous doorway and stand at the bottom of a decayed stairwell lit by one yellow bulb; listen to the ambiguous industrial clanging and occasional disembodied whispers that emanate from the bowels of the ancient factory. Arcadia is on the 3rd floor, but every step closer somehow seems to take you down instead of up. You feel as if you were going down the way sleepers descend into the REM state; down the way Alice went down the rabbit's hole; down the way Orpheus went down after Euridice. And when you reach the massive iron-strapped doorway that swings open silently onto a twilit world of bouys bobbing on the ceiling, flying horses on the stairway, and liquid electronic music as enveloping as a tropical sea, you'll know you've finally come to rest at the bottom of the world. Welcome to Arcadia. You swim through Arcadia, as if through the submerged ruins of an ancient city. Past James Elaine¹s quiescent, luminous sculptures of blown glass, antifreeze, perfume factices, past a wall of transistor radios creating a wash of static, murmuring in an extinct language distilled from the living air. Beneath exquisite, decaying lattice vaults and octograms of cast iron, whose patterns are echoed precisely in the great gold and brown tiles paving the floors, through flowing partitions of muslin to a gothic bedchamber, with a ladder leading down into an interior courtyard, whose stillness and isolation on a moonlit night can recall the corrosive splendor of a Moorish water garden. The dreams of Arcadia are only the fleeting memories of a school of fish, of a half-finished hallucination, of a song that used to make you cry, long ago, when the world was greener and the alcazar of your imagination had many, many more rooms.
