During lockdown 2020, an online platform called Nowhere Comedy popped up. Its logo is an amalgam of major global city landmarks—Seattle’s Space Needle, Paris’s Arc de Triomphe, London’s Big Ben—all squished together into a single imaginary landscape. The impresa is supposed to be an inducement to buy tickets to ostensibly fun comedy events hosted on Zoom. It reminded me of the theme for the 1964 World’s Fair in New York, with pavilions from eighty countries crammed together in Queens, celebrating “man’s achievements on a shrinking globe in an expanding universe.” Yet I can’t imagine a context

In 1945, after the death of her parents, Louise Nevelson (1899–1988) used money from her family’s estate to buy a four-story brownstone at 323 East Thirtieth Street in Manhattan. She fixed it up with the help of a friend and a loan from a gallerist who’d shown her work but hadn’t been able to sell any of it. She used the building and its large backyard as a home, studio, and meeting place for artist groups and cultural events, but in 1954 she was evicted by New York’s Committee on Slum Clearance, which planned to demolish the neighborhood for redevelopment. She stayed as long as she could, until

In this small, tightly focused exhibition, David Gutierrez presented figurative and literal dissections—or, more specifically, work that picked apart the artist’s own identity, personal history, and body through a panoply of doppelgängers. Displayed horizontally on the floor at the center of Tiger Strikes Asteroid was the life-size color photograph Self-Portrait #41, 2019, one of twenty-one such pictures that were included in the show. This piece depicted the artist costumed as an “anatomical Venus,” a kind of figurative wax sculpture that was popular in Italy during the late eighteenth century