Rose Wylie’s exhibition “Dressed to Kill” opened a fortnight after Halloween and featured among its ten characteristically outsize, often multipanel paintings several whose iconography revolved around seasonal treats—chocolate gravestones, chocolate ghosts, etc. The rooms smelled strongly of fresh oil paint; most of the works were brand-new. One was led to assume, viewing and whiffing them, that Wylie—now eighty-one, though her idiosyncratic, sophisticated yet naive-looking work has only really found favor this last decade—had waited until the last possible moment before deciding