On Sunday, September 3, a crowd presses itself against the walls of a long, wallpapered parlor in The Hancock, an ornate ten-room brownstone in Bed-Stuy open for parties and performances. On one end the room features cardboard boxes piled high in front of a picture window, and on the other a brocade couch where audience members sit. Lightbulbs flickering on wall sconces mimic candlelight. Speaking in hushed tones and sipping orange wine, the crowd grows silent as the lights fall for the second night of Sharleen Chidiac’s Charade.

As soon as the lights come up after a show, the “stage” becomes a “house for the audience,” and the “greenroom” a “bar.” It’s impossible not to linger and bask in the afterglow.