In the most general way it could be said that Marc Chaimowicz’ art is about the melancholy repetition of the recollection of past desires. It is a careful, highly structured art that seems at once tender and yet rather cynical. Working with a deliberately limited set of images—images of an eroticized domesticity—Chaimowicz has, over the past few years, been investigating the boundary between the private and the public worlds, an area in which the voyeuristic impulses of both the artist and the spectator are brought into question.

Chaimowicz’ work is consciously artificial, it has a stagy feel to

Anthony Caro’s recent small-scale works are sculptural aphorisms. Open and closed, balanced and falling, abstract and recognizable, part and whole interpenetrate rhythmically, and while some pieces permit immediate visual access, others conceal their complex organization, demanding close attention. Play of opposites is evident, too, in their making. Often they resemble improvisations urged suddenly into permanence by bronze casting. Domestic utensils, trays, drapery, and pipes defy gravity. Accident turns into high drama, as when jugglers let plates drop nearly to the floor before catching them.