Cady Noland rarely shows new work, but when she does it’s a big occasion—and in this instance doubly so because the exhibition of six new sculptures (and three prints on metal from the early 1990s) was produced in tandem with the release of her self-published two-volume book, THE CLIP-ON METHOD (2021), which also happened to be the title of her presentation here. As much a catalogue raisonné as an extended manifesto and meditation on evil, the publication contains copious photographs of her art and exhibitions from the 1980s to the present (including the 1989 work for which the volumes and show

Satellite imagery has evolved significantly in the decades since the first photographs of Earth were taken from space. Earthrise, captured in 1968 by astronaut William Anders, and The Blue Marble, snapped in 1972 by the crew of Apollo 17, would help catalyze the environmental movement—how revelatory and alien those initial renderings must have seemed at the time. This developing technology had a profound impact on sculptor and ceramicist Ruth Duckworth (1919–2009), who pored over weather-satellite pictures and topographical maps to create some of her seminal works, such as the monumental

WE ARE GIVEN A BIOGRAPHY: At the age of thirty-nine, Huguette Caland leaves her husband and children to pursue a career as an artist in Paris. Years later, she moves to Venice, California, and establishes her “dream home.” Toward the end of her life, she returns to Beirut, the city of her birth. The present exhibition, we are told, “celebrates Caland’s love affair with line and its capacity to express the shared human desire for intimate connection.” So goes the opening wall text for “Huguette Caland: Tête-à-Tête,” curated by Claire Gilman with Isabella

In September 2018, while working on Memory and Time, her public project at the Carroll A. Campbell Jr. Federal Courthouse in Greenville, South Carolina—unveiled this past summer—Joyce Kozloff was bewildered to find new Confederate flags decorating each gravestone in the local cemetery, dedicated to the hundreds of soldiers from that area who died during the American Civil War. Kozloff realized how deeply that conflict was ingrained in the Southern identity, and recognized the divisive power of that flag, those famous words by Mississippi-born novelist William Faulkner seeming tragically real:

This past summer, the Art Students League of New York held the first historic exhibition dedicated to Cinque Gallery, an artist-led nonprofit that operated between 1969 and 2004. The brainchild of Romare Bearden, Ernest Crichlow, and Norman Lewis, Cinque was founded to exhibit and promote the work of marginalized, primarily Black artists, while also serving as a training ground for young arts administrators of color. Cinque was to some extent an outgrowth of the Spiral group, which met regularly from 1963 to 1965 to debate the role of Black artists in the struggle for civil rights. The gallery

One of many exquisite pieces in this gorgeous exhibition of abstract drawings and sculptures by Dorothy Dehner (1901–1994) was Garden at Night, 1957, a linear bronze-and-steel tableau that has a playful yet primeval quality to it, as though it were based on imagery from the walls of Lascaux. To my mind, it bears a resemblance to Arshile Gorky’s 1944 painting Garden of Wish Fulfillment. But Dehner’s flourishing patch of flora signals joie de vivre, while Gorky’s canvas is woebegone and deathly—it speaks to misery, to the futility of life. The little black star in Dehner’s piece is a sign of hope

Observing Cait Porter’s New York solo debut “Within These Walls,” one might have found it easy (and one wouldn’t have been exactly wrong) to peg the artist as an old-fashioned realist putting time-tested techniques in the service of contemporary quotidiana. In the paintings on view here her attention was fixed on what we could assume was her own domestic environment and its distinctly banal, insignificant details: a drain with some suds bubbling around it, jumbled clothing inside an open chest of drawers with a stray power cord on top of it, a robe draped over a wooden door. These were not

The titles for the paintings in Franklin Evans’s exhibition “fugitivemisreadings” were made up of lowercase letters jammed together into solid blocks, like the stream-of-consciousness “thunderwords” in James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake (1939), or the file names of PDFs scattered over a Mac desktop. In one canvas, Evans paid tribute to Henri Matisse’s famous pastoral of 1905–1906, The Joy of Life, by hand copying the composition’s Fauvist figures and rearranging them as if he were using the cut-and-paste function in Photoshop. The work is called . . . wait for it . . . joysdivision (all works cited,

The fundamental task of a musician, according to Milford Graves (1941–2021), was in many ways straightforward: “We’re here to make that eardrum vibrate,” he said, believing that music worked its substantial powers in this way, healing the human body, mind, and spirit. He started on his path as a percussionist who played rhythms that were so far out, so singular, that even his fellow free-jazz practitioners couldn’t always keep up. (“Play time, man,” he recalled being chided.) But Graves understood that, in the same way that a heart is not a metronome—its cadence is subject to subtle

According to the authorities on such matters, Snow White was a girl of incomparable loveliness. As the Brothers Grimm tell it, she was as “beautiful as the day.” In the words of Walt Disney, she was nothing short of “an angel.” Indeed, so stunning were the young royal’s features—so mesmeric was the shine of her raven hair, the flush of her bloodred lips, the creaminess of her milk-white skin—that they drove her vain stepmother, egged on by an enchanted mirror, into a homicidal rage.

It is this fairy-tale figure’s synonymousness with beauty that makes Norwegian artist Trude Viken’s twisted

A cheerfully ferocious “wrecker of civilization”—kin to Aleister Crowley and Austin Osman Spare, to William Burroughs and Brion Gysin, to Fluxus and Viennese Actionism—Genesis Breyer P-Orridge (1950–2020) occupied a crucial position at the nexus of interrelated postwar artistic streams for nearly a half century. “TIME=EMIT,” a recent show of the shape-shifting provocateur’s work at No Gallery, was billed with fitting impertinence as “a three-person solo exhibition,” revealing a sliver of the object-based strand of the polymath’s sprawling career via he/r tripartite personal and artistic identity.

After receiving a Fulbright Fellowship, Marina Leybishkis visited various refugee camps in Lesbos, Greece, between 2018 and 2019, including Moria Reception and Kara Tepe. At the time, these sites were the largest settlements for displaced people fleeing war-torn countries, such as Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria. In September 2020, asylum seekers set fire to Moria, perhaps as a reaction to Covid-19 quarantine restrictions, resulting in even more desperate circumstances for the island’s exiles. In her exhibition here, “Archeology of Loss,” Leybishkis—a 2020 artist-in-residence under Baxter Street