\n IKEA pieces sell for thousands at high-end auctions \n IKEA's best and worst buys, according to experts \n Did IKEA kill the antiques industry? \n Not content to stick with calming botanical prints and seafoam cotton twills, IKEA, over the past few years, has been dipping into limited edition collections created in collaboration with various artists and designers. In the past, this has meant a handful of bright and offbeat products to put alongside your blonde pine furniture and ecru rugs. This time around the limited edition collection seems keen to induce Woodstock flashbacks in those who only barely survived the acid experience. There are humanoid pickles, giraffes in space and a variety of graphic melting faces. The Stunsig artwork makes the venerable Swedish chain's previous collaboration with Walter Van Bierendonck (a collection that featured some eye-searing insights into the legendary Belgian designer's psyche) look like a restrained Laura Ashley sheet set. When it works, as it does in the case of Los Angeles designer and artist Steve Harrington's contributions, it's fantastic. When it doesn't, the Stunsig designs make you feel like you've drifted off into a feverish sleep and woke up at 3am with something weird on the TV. Based on the imagery IKEA have settled upon for the collection, here's how I imagine the road to Stunsig began ... Somewhere near the piles of stuffed rats and rainbow-coloured plastic baby's wardrobes, an IKEA employee - let's call her Inge - is visited by a zany dill pickle wearing pink hi-top sneakers. "Hey, kid," the dill pickle hisses, "you wanna buy some middling psychedelic art?" He holds out his hand; in it, a Swedish meatball with an otherworldly glow to it. Inge is intrigued. From what she can remember as her memory begins to turn into a gaping chasm of glitter, there's a bonus up for grabs if someone can come up with a really great idea for a capsule collection of homewares and soft furnishings. Maybe "soft-psychedelia" is where it's at? "Sure," she murmurs as she eats the meatball, wondering how customers would react to a giant wall of canvas tote bags daubed with the screaming visage of an alpha timber wolf. The dill pickle smirks - she's putty in his weirdly human hands. From there, the stacks of Billy shelves begin to melt and Inge suddenly realises she can hear colours and taste sounds. The dill pickle takes Inge by the hand and leads her into a dark corner of the indoor plants section, where a temporal rift opens inside a stock elevator. Hand in hand, they dive in. As Inge and the dill pickle fly through space, they pass an almighty constellation in the shape of a giraffe. "That's our leader," the dill pickle says, as Inge nods weakly, rapidly losing consciousness in the inky void of space. "Please," she croaks, "I need to get back to the board meeting." "Stay with me," the dill pickle commands Inge, slapping her on the cheek, "we haven't even discussed the possibility of a doona cover featuring the disembodied mouths and tongues of pink cartoon rabbits yet!" Finally, Inge and the dill pickle land on a planet that looks like someone tipped a bunch of different blue paints into a spa bath, and Inge regains consciousness. They're met by a humanoid nashi pear, who wears Groucho Marx glasses and smokes a pipe. "We're so glad you've decided to take the plunge on a range of psychedelic homewares," the pear coos, a peace lily growing out of his pipe. "I guess so," Inge shrugs, sobering up and wondering whether she took a wrong turn while trying to take a shortcut from the lamp section through to the picture frames. "You don't think this collection might be read as an attempt to convince the youth of today that IKEA is 'not your mum's collection of tasteful and functional furniture', though?" Horrified by the mere suggestion, the dill pickle starts to scream. "Now look what you've done, you ungrateful human!" the pear yells, as the dill pickle's wrinkled, warty torso begins to shake. His body is ripped apart by unseen forces, as though he's run headfirst into an invisible egg slicer. By this point Inge has seen enough. "I want to go home!" she yells, stamping her foot. "Silly girl," the pear sniffs. "All you had to do all this time was click your heels together and say 'borrow a yellow bag, or buy your own for $2' three times. Oh and don't forget to get your parking ticket validated on your way out."