Robert Barry’s exhibition consisted of works on paper, in series and as several isolated pieces. Pieces of paper at first seem painted uniformly in red, yellow, or blue, but on approaching the work one can distinguish words, and the recurrent image of a tree. The words, finely printed, are distributed over the entire surface of the paper, following untraced vertical and horizontal lines. The arrangement of the words varies from piece to piece; it seems that they have been made to function together in many spatial formulations, by an indeterminate program. In the unified space of the paper, they

Don Hazlitt’s cutout relief paintings are small, portable worlds that you can hold in your hand. They are arrayed along the walls of the gallery, bristling with spikes and bizarre protruberances, offering themselves in their masonry of papier-mâché, cardboard, and other materials. The colors are in outrageously bad taste; these acidic reds, pistachio greens, and lemon yellows are as reprehensible as the color additives in ice cream. The paintings’ declension of color is doubtful and their fleshiness is fake. Gone is the spiritual distinction of the great chromatic walls of “all over”; Hazlitt