Ken Price’s humor gets its ceramic mileage from a perverse play on precious bric-a-brac collected by maiden aunts everywhere. His current show at the David Whitney Gallery is of small objects that look like Tiffany-colored turds. They are small piles of clay set on grandiose, impeccably crafted wooden bases that could be Formica but aren’t. Their color, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, is most reminiscent of the sheen on putrescent flesh. They are in exquisite bad taste.

—Kasha Linville