Move Over Barbie Expo! Lina Bradford and Gage Spex’s “Dream a Little Dream of Me” at Salma Sarriedine Is Doll Divinity

I regret to inform you that Montreal’s little slice of kitsch heaven, Barbie Expo (or Expo Barbie en français), has gone to seed. Sure, when I first visited the supposed largest Barbie exhibition in the world, its host, the mall Les Cours Mont-Royal, didn’t exactly live up to its PR promise to “redefine the meaning of shopping,” unless redefining meant not shopping at all in the many shuttered boutiques. Yet, Barbie Expo stood strong as a harshly lit basement beacon to better days of Mattel-branded consumerism gone by, a flourishing subterranean shrine to life in plastic, with copious eye-searing display cases stuffed with a variety of Barbies. These ranged from the spectacular glamour of Bob Mackie Barbies to a globe-trotting trip through the world’s Barbies, like Disney’s A Small World, if you replaced those shrieky puppets with Barbie’s sexy gams.

Visiting Montreal three years later to giddily witness The Weeknd risk torching the city’s largest municipal park in a blaze of overwrought pyrotechnics (more on that experience to come), I found the Barbie Expo in a different, more depressing and deteriorated state. Granted, I’m lucky I even found it at all! Assuming I recalled Barbie Expo’s precise location, I spun through Les Cours Mont-Royal’s revolving door and stopped, stunned, to suddenly drop into Dave and Buster’s Canadian twin, a nefarious neon hell of arcade games and cases of fluffy Koosh balls and other toss-away gewgaws purchasable with enough tickets awarded for successful Skee-Ball games. This Midwestern-coded monstrosity, the kind of immature enjoyment only possible if there’s fuck-all else to do in town, had taken over much of Les Cours—or was the main draw if the advertising assault within the mall itself for the adult playground, Les Trois Monkeys, was any indication. Even the ruby red high-heel sculpture, a prior breathtaking memorial to gaudiness in previous years, was plunked on a printed carpet that looked like it had been yanked from a roller-skating rink. This can’t be right! There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!

Ignoring any signage, I trudged to Barbie’s basement, blinking in the harsh fluorescent lights. After suffering some kind of post-flu vestibular crisis in the spring, fluorescent lights make me feel dizzy and destabilized (heinously lit galleries can trigger it too), which meant I woozily whirled around Les Cours’ lower-level past a greasy-smelling food court, a train station, and a store that appeared to only sell colored contacts. But no Barbie. Where the fuck was she?! Finally, I gave up and found a map—she had moved up in the world, onto the third floor.

This vertical climb did not correspond with better digs. The new Barbie Expo is now crammed into a remote storefront, likely a former Victoria’s Secret or KAY Jewelers. Gone was the breathtaking expanse and grandeur of its former jewelry-box dungeon. Instead, Barbie Expo now felt dingy and foreboding. Many of the same Barbies were still there—Elvis and Priscilla, Olivia Newton-John, Undead Bride Barbie. But something was off. A muffled alarm beeped ominously. A central display case boasting a fashion week scene with Barbie models formerly gliding down the runway came with spooky haunted house strobe-flickering lights as if these models, now frozen in place, were at risk of unexpected electroshock therapy. ZZZT! At least these Barbies could vamp in their treacherous light; others, like a dinner party, were plunged into darkness. Grim.

Although Barbie Expo may have felt deserted, it wasn’t entirely abandoned. A few other Barbie devotees tittered at the dolls on view, clearly more captivated by the Mattel meltdown than I was. Which made me wonder: Was it me? Was I a doll downer?!! Admittedly, it may have been that my eyes had seen the glory of Barbie nirvana before I left for Canada, a paradise of plastic that far surpassed the now-seemingly staid, alienating, and soulless vacuous cages—I mean, cases—of Barbie Expo. That newfound kitsch bliss is Salma Sarriedine’s Dream a Little Dream of Me, an intergenerational pairing of nightlife icons—DJ and performer Lina Bradford, a.k.a. D.J. Lina or Girlina, and Spectrum co-founder and artist Gage Spex, a.k.a. GaydoLL—and their awe-inspiringly expansive doll collections.

Immediately upon exiting the gallery’s elevator, the exhibition, curated by Aviva Silverman, transports viewers into the magenta-hued living room of a Barbie Dreamhouse, a white fluffy carpeted salon with numerous couches on which viewers can sit, chat, watch a collection of Bradford’s videos of her interviews, talk shows, and performances at long-gone bars like Boy Bar, including my favorite extraterrestrial performance Space Cunt, alongside fellow legends Mona Foot and Lady Bunny, and peruse an album of Bradford’s collected night-out snapshots. The latter is a delightfully inventive and tactile way to showcase nightlife photos and the community preserved within. Often nightlife-related shows (and I include the ones I’ve curated here) try to raise these sometimes, fuzzy snaps to the level of high art in pricy frames. Thankfully resisting that snooty urge, the photo album, instead, gives the homey impression of a family photo album if your aunties were Amanda Lepore and Sophia Lamar, emphasizing the formation of chosen families within clubland. Though I gravitated to those first, it’s hard to fixate on the photos solely. Placed next to the album on a mirrored coffee table are a pink telephone and green feather-accented Magic 8 Ball. While these are the décor accents I imagined having as an adult when growing up in the early 1990s, these props derive from Bradford’s YouTube talk show In the Doll House with Lina, which uses her extensive collection of Barbies as a backdrop. Some of these Barbies, Kens, Skippers, and whoever the fuck P.J. was stand stiff in a brick-like wall of pink boxes surrounding the TV. Unlike poor Sun Gold Ken suffocating in his packaging, another luckier grouping takes a breath of fresh air in a chaotic gaggle below, including Wonder Woman and a truly tragic Dorothy Gale doll. Who did Judy piss off?!

Dream a Little Dream of Me features nods to Bradford and Spex themselves, such as the pairing of their very own boxed Barbies that introduce the show. D.J. Lina’s doll comes with a disco ball accessory, while Spex’s is identifiable by their Kembra-Pfahler-and-Divine-go-to-outer-space shock of forehead-expanding, eyebrow-obliterating eye makeup. That same pointy, exaggerated cat eye can be found slathered on the faces of scattered Barbies in the exhibition, like easter eggs for people who mainline liquid eyeliner. While a few Barbs transform into Spexes, Bradford, conversely, tries on a selection of looks and identities in a series of illustrations by Alvaro, which appear as if Antonio Lopez landed a Mattel commission. There’s Mod Bradford in a Mondrian dress, Bradford as the Queen of Chinatown, and, my preferred, a Blaxploitation baadasssss in the vein of Pam Grier. A painter themself, Spex also places a collection of new glittering, elegant alien paintings, rendered in girly pink and girlier sky blue, throughout the show. Some of these works, like the tondo League of They’re own (My First Barbie), with the soon-to-be snipped bow, cake-like froofy dress, and Spex-ish Dorothy, reminded me of Victoria Dugger’s apocalyptically abject Southern Gothic picnics.

While these inclusions are enough for an exhibition on their own, the duo’s dueling doll collections steal the show. With around 600 dolls staring at viewers with vacant, unseeing eyes and frozen grins, how could they not? Beyond Barbie, Ken, their lesbian friend Midge, Skipper, and other pals, there are many other recognizable figures: KISS (the only tragedy is there are no KISS figurines representing their most shocking pancake foundation “Lick It Up” period); Jem and the Holograms rockers; Charlie’s Angels ladies, including a Farrah Fawcett head; Barbra Streisand; Bionic Woman Lindsay Wagner; and a bizarre, tiny Paul McCartney that looks straight out of London’s Museum of Brands. Unlike Montreal’s Barbie Expo, Spex and Bradford’s collections are not showcased stiffly, doll by doll. Instead, their Barbies inhabit the real—or, ok, Barbie—world, posing in their luxurious dream homes, dream cars, and dream boats. It’s not hard to find amusement peering into these many dioramas. Barbie’s Townhouse, located next to Barbie’s Merry Prankster Van, hosts a party with two of the gayest Kens: the notorious mesh-shirted Cock Ring Ken, who is stuck in a confessional booth, and his swishier sidekick, a pastel green jacket-wearing fop. Tuesday Taylor’s Penthouse induces a jumpscare with Dodi, Tuesday’s five-headed buddy whose face looks like it’s sliding off her enormous skull. Like Dodi’s printed plates of nasty vintage foods, the real synapse-buzzing delight lies in the details. My favorite part of the exhibition just might be the pairing of flowy maned dogs straight out of a puppy Pantene commercial, one with natural hair so thick that it’s hard to find the pup’s face. Give them to me right now!

Though both Bradford and Spex (mostly) allow their Barbies to play with others, there is a distinct difference in how the twosome treats their doll dioramas. Bradford’s most sublime displays create surrealistic scenes of repetition, with many of the same dolls gathered together. Take, for instance, the staggering multitude of Donny and Marie Osmonds, which appear as if the siblings made their own tulpas in order to finish an episode of their TV show. As mind-warping as these can be, there is a collector’s preciousness to Bradford’s approach that Spex throws right off, mixing Barbies and various other bee-stung-lipped Bratz-like dolls with high heels, energy drinks, and assorted other knick-knacks and trash. In one of their artsy vignettes, Valley of the Dolls-ish stoned vintage Barbies loiter, fuzzy-eyed, around a chaotic living room, alongside football sweater Ken, who is so high he’s shoved a knight’s bascinet on his head to the apparent notice of nobody else in the room. In another seafaring scene, a Spex-maquillaged Barbie, with a shorn head, perfect for more makeup space, sails the high seas with a blonde Barbie poking from under their gown. Many of Spex’s Barbies also notably boast transcendently ratty, slept-in bouffant hairdos, reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, John Waters’ Charm City, or The Cramps’ Poison Ivy’s dirty-wigged remembrance of Jayne Mansfield.

Notably, the only Barbie that stands solo in a place of honor inside her pristine box is Diana Ross. And, as royalty, she shouldn’t have to mingle with the suntan lotion-stinking Malibu peons! Though not as untouchable as Ms. Ross, other Barbie tributes take on the sanctity of religious shrines. Just try not to genuflect in front of the magnificent collection of Chers, peppered with a few Sonnys, showcasing a range of Bob Mackie’s greatest hits. If that doesn’t belong as the altarpiece in a St. Cher’s Cathedral of Camp, I don’t know what should! An alter is also the theme of Spex’s blacklight Barbie backroom, which resembles Kenny Scharf’s Cosmic Cavern if he traded in spray paint and intergalactic tchotchkes for forever-chemical glamazons, doll mansions, hangers of club wear, and collages of Skittles packets. Like Bradford’s In the Dollhouse pseudo-set, Spex offers viewers a place to sit and flip through family photos—this time quite literally with two small albums juxtaposing childhood pix, screengrabs of camp classics like What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, and beguiling solo shots of Barbies, some soaking in luxurious sink bubble baths, reminiscent of Todd Haynes’ greatest cinematic masterpiece, Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story.

Now, I’m aware that I’m primed to fall all over Dream a Little Dream of Me’s Barbie-a-go-go. You know I love dolls. I also yearn for art exhibitions with a sense of humor and, god forbid, fun, as well as support any and all things excessively obsessive. As our preeminent filth elder John Waters tells us, “Life is nothing if you’re not obsessed.” Even the show’s title, though referencing the classic song, makes me think of Nicole Kidman’s gratingly breathy version recorded for the forgettable, failed prestige drama The Undoing.

But, Dream a Little Dream is more than a personal folly. By combining these collection belonging to two trans artists and nightlife figures, with full recognition of the winking use of “dolls,” i.e. transfeminine people, as in “Protect the dolls,” the show wrestles Barbie back from the furious paws of grumps whining about Barbie’s nipped waist, impossible good looks, and picture-perfect genes (Barbie did it first, Sydney Sweeney!). That’s too easy a hot take. Instead, Bradford and Spex celebrate Barbie and her many incarnations, spin-offs, and rip-offs as ever-evolving icons of self-fashioning, the kind of self-fashioning that surely resonates with nightlife’s fabulousness. The show also reveals the critical role of Barbie as a favorite plaything, fantasy object, and worshipped idol for queer children. In fact, it’s such an important monument to all those little genderqueer children horrifying their parents by wanting dolls rather than Tonka trucks or G.I. Joes that this combo collection should probably be turned into a permanent exhibition somewhere, à la Barbie Expo, for maximum pilgrimage potential for the rest of us Barbie freaks.