There are at least two ways to take this exhibition of Ed Moses’ paintings and drawings selected from the last 45 years of his production: either these works testify to Moses’ ceaseless “will to change,” as John Yau, quoting Charles Olson, concludes in his eloquent catalogue essay, or they signal the artist’s unconscious acknowledgment of what Hermann Broch, speaking of Franz Kafka’s wish to destroy his work, called “the ultimate insufficiency of any artistic approach.” Moses restlessly moves from one stylistic mode to another, each contradicting the next; in the end, we are left with an apotheosis

James Luna once lay in a vitrine of the kind found in natural-history museums, a live exhibit, his scars from drunken accidents marked with little labels. And in a videotape of a Christmas Eve spent at home on the Luiseño reservation in California (made in 1993 with filmmaker Isaac Artenstein), Luna was the picture of abjection, going through a six-pack and innumerable cigarettes while making abortive telephone calls to loved ones. The bleakness in I.una’s work has functioned as a protective camouflage, as a way of saying, “There’s no transcendence here, no Indian spirituality to salve your