William Weber is a competent artist. His stark portraits of the Pensylvania Dutch have quiet authority, his pictures of jazz greats an affectionate quality. But the general tone of this show is commercial, with bits of social realism, surrealism, portraiture and modernity all trying to get into the act. His Floating Nude smacks of the calendar, and we hope he wasn’t serious about Nativity, a corny helping of pseudo-Andrew Wyeth which tells a tale of illegitimate birth among the leather jacket set. Better to leave this show with the memory of Birds, a fairly strong, semi-abstract statement, or his fine, candid Oscar, that being Oscar Peterson.

—Arthur Bloomfield