Deborah Butterfield makes utopian horses—horses not of this world. They have no genitals, they bypass regular “horse” anatomy, and they are made for indoors only. Artists often elevate God’s beastly creatures: Anne Arnold’s cows are kitsch, living-room gestures with no shit in their tails; Don Nice’s paintings are comparative, diagrammatic, animal-object hierarchies; and Nancy Graves’s transmit natural vitality through an artificial symbol. But Butterfield gives over even more, in psychological, and even physical ways.

There are three phases of horse in this exhibition. All were executed in

During the past five years, Edith Altman’s work has done its best to capture time in a variety of ways. Sometimes, she drops paper to the floor, fastens in the transience by sewing folds, and displays a consequent “drawing” that recalls Duchamp’s stoppages. Or, in sequential photography, she records the gradual entrapment of snow by wire grids cut into autumn ground; the emergence of “dyed” grass made by powder pigment in melting snow; the differing appearances of a sculpture-group on the beach, in the park, at home, and in the gallery. To judge from sundry, first-person “artist’s statements”