Evolution doesn’t have a punchline, unless you count the platypus. Though Charles Darwin first proposed the idea of natural selection more than 150 years ago, that process is so arbitrary and usually relies on such incomprehensibly long spans of time that it’s still a hard concept to grasp. It’s not exactly that the “fittest” or best creatures always end up on top. Instead, Darwin posited, variation of all sorts is constantly happening; we’re descendants of the weird mutants who stuck around.
Jennifer McCandless reminds us of this by presenting an ecosystem of misfit creatures — funny, tragic, baffling and wholly human — in “You’re An Animal,” a solo show of ceramic sculptures on view at Soapbox Arts in Burlington. To be clear, McCandless’ figures are not all the same species; there are aliens and monsters, wildlife, middle-aged women, and even politicians. But all occupy their own niches with a comedic level of specificity that’s deeply humanizing, even when the scene is surreal.
The show is composed of more than 30 works, but the gallery doesn’t feel crowded because they’re all quite small, ranging from just a couple of inches to 21.5 inches high. That means the viewer needs to get up close and really look to discover what’s going on with each one. Many are made up of still smaller beings piled on top of each other — a formal decision made directly in opposition to classical presentations of a singular heroic figure. The scale and intricacy draw you in to investigate every tiny action.
McCandless further showcases the easily overlooked with her suite of middle-aged women. In a classic trench coat, fedora and face bandages, “Middle Aged Woman Finds Herself Invisible,” though as her grin indicates, perhaps not unpleasantly so; another erases herself with an actual-size Pink Pearl eraser, rubber shavings included. The tennis-playing “Woke Woman Paralyzed by Her Own Privilege” is awkwardly looking skyward and almost falling over backward, sporting a vacuous expression. Another similarly posed figure provokes more empathy, holding literal pieces of herself in “Pretending Your Words Don’t Blow Holes Through Me.” The most triumphant is surely the bikini-clad, amply proportioned, arms-out “Cat Surfer.”
The most immediate works in the show are its overtly political ones. An eight-inch-tall President Donald Trump stands on his head, red tie flopping onto his face, in “All the Failed Fathers,” while his distinctive hair sprouts a friend à la Robert F. Kennedy in “Not: This Is Not a Sausage Worm in Your President’s Brain.” Some from McCandless’ “Billionaire Bozos” series allude directly to the other clowns in charge: “Billionaire Bozos: Rocket Man” rides a penis-esque rocket, presumably toward Mars.
“Billionaire Bozos: Oil Spill” gives us a sad clown, his red fluffy hair covered in an oozy purple-black coating that McCandless achieved with terra sigillata, a shiny, glaze-like ceramic. There and elsewhere, her material sense is spot-on. A matte finish gives a touch more seriousness and poignancy to sculptures that portray the American flag destroying itself, especially in “Heartache,” where its cracked surface simmers with lava about to erupt.
McCandless is gifted not only at coming up with great titles but also at using them to change the works’ apparent meaning. The best example might be a tiny, cupped, orangeish hand, mounted to the wall a little lower than you’d expect. From afar, it’s relatively innocuous. But the title? “Not: This Is Not Your President’s Hand Trying to Grab You in the Pussy.”
Across the gallery, McCandless gives us a good counterpoint to Trump’s sad little digits with “Bad Bitch,” an orange-red furry monster arm with lime-green claws. It’s no mean feat to turn clay into something hairy, but the artist does it on a regular basis with monsters that are ambiguous and strange but inherently funny. A Sasquatch’s foot — sans Sasquatch — hosts a community of tiny, happy insects. A fuzzy purple monster tries unsuccessfully to hide itself in a vent, hung low on the gallery wall where it looks utilitarian. That piece is part of a series called “Last Ditch Effort at Assimilation,” which also includes a realistic-looking wild boar and a bear trying to hide behind cartoon masks of Porky Pig and Yogi Bear, respectively. They seem to encompass both the politics of hiding out of fear and just finding ways to get along.
One of McCandless’ great skills — in addition to her mastery of her craft, which alone would make this show worth seeing — is putting works you instantly get next to surreal, stranger scenes that feel accessible because of their neighbors. A person stands, seemingly unconcerned but half-devoured by a giant green bunny. There’s a pile of googly-eyed sea creatures and a little alien watching you from high on the gallery wall. A family poses on their sofa under piles of pets. An ugly, grinning creature made from loops of sickly, glittering iridescent clay holds a tiny rainbow; it’s dubbed a “Soggy Pile of Silver Linings.” The inclusion of these weirder sculptures adds depth and creates a complex context for others that on their own might seem too straightforward, such as the word “Sorry” styled as an American flag.
Outside of sculptures intended for the gallery, McCandless also makes terra-cotta structures that double as homes for pollinators, and she has worked to educate others about the importance of supporting their habitat. That ecologically centered view comes through here as well. Society is portrayed as hive-like and interconnected, though it sometimes stings. Her perspective is perhaps best summed up by a 13-inch-high pile of goofy-looking worms, monsters and disembodied arms, a human face peeking out from under them, titled “Animal Encounters: We Are Each Other.” ➆
This article appears in March 25 • 2026.
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