“Pierres rejetées . . .” (Rejected Stones . . .) surveyed the work made in the fourteen years since Jimmie Durham relocated to Europe—away, it would seem, from the immediate milieu of his American Indian identity. But like the character Nobody in Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man, 1995, the more Durham habituates himself to Europe, the more potent come to seem the tropes of this identity, a development probably owing to his increased renown. Any number of platitudes about the American Indian correspond with clichés about the artist: his reciprocal, mystical relationship to materials, his shamanistic

One problem with postmodernist pastiche might be that, like postmodernism itself, one can’t say for certain where it stops. With all things liable to fall into its ken, contemporary art sometimes resembles a no-holds-barred citational frenzy, where even pastiche itself is fair game. Julian Hoeber’s work might act as a barometer for this twenty-first-century license, referencing everything from Op to Pop to post-painterly abstraction. But Hoeber avers that he has simply arrived at a post-postmodernity, having “properly digested” postmodernism, “chewed it up and made some shit out of it.” Though