In 1972 Susan Hiller’s attempts at automatic writing resulted in texts apparently dictated by some external force. Plural, female, and rhapsodic, the “writers” called themselves “sisters of Menon.” In a script that was not her own, they beseeched Hiller to join their company. Their voices, which Hiller described as insistent, repetitive, personal, and punning, set up a paradoxical relationship between asserted existence and apparent insubstantiality (“I live my sister,” “the riddle is the sister of the zero”); it constantly switched from “I” to “we” to “everyone.”

As an artist, Hiller’s chosen

On nights when it is too hot to sleep, you might get up and pour yourself a drink or try to write letters or just watch the curtains blowing against the window frames. Outside, other dwellings are full of people sleeping or pacing too. It becomes harder to concentrate as tiredness sets in. The furniture starts to look odd. Shadows mystify corners you thought you knew. Feeling not entirely safe nor fully in control gives that feeling a special savor.

In “Through the Night,” 1984, a series of large black and white paintings by Gerard de Thame, semidarkened interiors come to resemble film noir sets