Jon Claytor's portraits are natural in the same way that, say, old country music is natural: even their affectations seem homey, from the gut. Claytor's new show, “Until the Break of Day,” combines his many interests – film, abstraction, figuration – to explore plain, lasting themes of innocence and experience. Again, as in country songs, Claytor's experience is a sort of infantile desperation, his innocence (as in Dolly Parton's work) a sobering means of existential examination. Claytor's abstract paintings are the most audacious addition here; they are Franz Kline-y, but so rudimentary, even with rootsy titles like “When ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes' is playin' a God damn ocean of love wouldn't be enough,” that they read like silly diary entries, or, aptly perhaps, like preschool projects. Claytor's few films, one of them embedded in an old carrying case and viewable through a peephole, are in tune with his portraits, both being preoccupied with faces and upper bodies as maps of emotion. A few of the children in the portraits (Claytor's own, presumably) are obscured by KISS makeup, but their eyes say it all, in accusatory, impatient, yet vulnerable expressions probably drawn from photographs. The adult portraits, in contrast, are in choppier, sloppier strokes, and a few subjects have their eyes closed. One, The Cowboy, is looking, but seems stunned (stoned?), barely cognizant; this, one gathers, is Claytor's vision of adulthood – a way of being that befalls you, and from which you never quite recover, even though you saw it coming all along.