Richard Prince’s cowboy romance goes way back. In the early 1980s, his decision to lift imagery straight from Marlboro ads, which featured Stetson-and-chaps-clad loners riding horseback through vast western vistas or pausing for an existential break, resulted in some of the artist’s most controversial and representative works. The legal disputes that followed reports of their financial success (in 2005, a 1989 Untitled [Cowboy] set an auction record of $1.2 million) have no doubt informed every act of appropriation he went on to exercise. Famously, Prince has claimed that he never associated

Louise Nevelson is so frequently invoked as a primary representative of postwar sculpture—and especially that made by women—that even the United States Postal Service has commemorated her with a series of stamps. Perhaps this neat apotheosis owes to Nevelson’s self-presentation: Her turbaned head and shellacked face, her mink-adorned eyelashes and rich caftans could only contribute to a hagiography that was established early on through tales of her birth in czarist Ukraine and was even more widely embraced in the years after the artist’s death, in 1988. Hers is a great story—so

Art therapy may be good therapy; it may or may not be good art. “E-thay Inward-yay Ourney-jay,” Los Angeles artist Dan Finsel’s recent solo show at Richard Telles, was a perverse gray mix of both. Extruding himself through exercises in Margaret Frings Keyes’s 1974 The Inward Journey: Art as Therapy for You, a self-help book he found at his parents’ house, the artist produced intestinal mandalas and absurd furniture, photocollages and mannerist self-portraits, all purporting to externalize an interior life. But rather than earnest psychoanalysis, this show was more accurately a backdoor act of