In the installation here, Frances Whitehead’s sculptures seemed to have been strewn across the pristine spaces of the gallery. Her sculptures leaned—sometimes precariously—against spotlit walls or came to rest in haphazard patterns on the floor. Yet these large-scale pieces seemed ready, poised for some unnamed or unknowable use, as if they were immense tools momentarily overlooked or set aside. Whitehead employs various forms of tin, zinc, steel, and copper, the heavy metals of early industrial technology, the fire-formed constituent elements of an outmoded engineering. They are bent and shaped

It is hard to identify the precise moment when Peter Saul’s work began to shift into its present state of willful petulance, in which the cranky artist vents his spleen in picture after picture of barely suppressed rage. But shift it did, and this retrospective of 30 years of his career traces a journey from wit to whine, from trouble-seeking angry young man to bitter misanthrope uttering shrill Cassandralike warnings to audiences more amused than angered. Therein lies Saul’s special place in contemporary art: like some beloved court jester, he seems to have been granted special license to rant