Through Feb. 23. Throckmorton Fine Art, 145 East 57th Street, Manhattan; 212-223-1059, throckmorton-nyc.com.
Although they will overlap only briefly, “Miguel Covarrubias: A Retrospective” is the perfect side dish to the movable feast of the Frida Kahlo exhibition opening Feb. 8 at the Brooklyn Museum. Born in Mexico City in 1904, Covarrubias was a member of Kahlo’s inner circle — a highly sociable workaholic, painter, anthropologist, teacher, writer and sometime curator — who had a chameleonic talent for drawing. He would illustrate his own books on the ethnography of Mesoamerican Mexico, but arriving in New York, at age 19, he established himself with influential celebrity caricatures for magazines like The New Yorker, Vogue and Vanity Fair. He soon knew everyone who was anyone, figured in the Harlem Renaissance and, briefly in Paris, designed sets for Josephine Baker.
It seems overly optimistic to call this show a retrospective, but its 50 or so works on paper memorably survey several of Covarrubias’s graphic gifts. There’s a Vanity Fair cover featuring Franklin Delano Roosevelt and a delightful watercolor-collage caricature of his friend the photographer Carl Van Vechten. But mostly there are deft, insouciant ink-and-pencil drawings and a few fine-grained lithographs, including “The Lindy Hop,” whose sinuous dancing couple brings to mind the work of Archibald J. Motley Jr. Covarrubias’s line could have the assured sparseness of Matisse, and he had a similar affinity for female beauty. But his drawings have more flair than artistic genius. Here he draws Mexican villages, ceremonial rituals in Bali (whose ethnography also occasioned a book) and near-scientific renditions of a sting ray and a lobster.
There are drawings and caricatures of his wife, the dancer and choreographer Rosa Rolanda, who learned to use a camera (from Edward Weston) and took photographs for his books. (Two of Weston’s photographs of Rolanda are in the Kahlo show, which also has a film by Covarrubias, “El Sur de México.”) A few of the drawings qualify as racist by today’s terms. But mostly a benign if paternalistic joy at the world prevails. The show would have been helped by including some of his meticulous renderings of Mesoamerican artifacts and motifs. But such illustrations appear in his books, several of which are here and available for browsing.
Covarrubias died in 1957 at age 53, ending a career worthy of a much longer life. Maybe the Brooklyn Museum will turn to his achievement soon. ROBERTA SMITH
Through Feb. 16. Ryan Lee, 515 West 26th Street, Manhattan; 212-397-0742, ryanleegallery.com.
Dance and movement are increasingly infiltrating museum and gallery spaces, and they do so in Mariam Ghani and Erin Ellen Kelly’s “When the Spirits Moved Them, They Moved” at Ryan Lee, which takes its inspiration from the Shakers, a Christian sect founded in 18th-century England. A daylong performance at Shaker Village in Pleasant Hill, Ky., in 2018, is shown here in the form of photographs and a three-channel video that captures the performers moving in ways that conjure or pay homage to the ecstatic worship of the Shakers.
In the 22-minute video, spread over three screens, this movement can be fluid or jerky, collective or solitary, taking place on a wooden floor or under a tree. Together, Ms. Ghani, an artist and filmmaker, and Ms. Kelly, who is described in the news release as someone who “constructs ways of moving, ephemeral collages and performance pieces” have shaped a version of the event that functions both as document and artwork. The video skillfully breaks down sequences and focuses on expressions or gestures that might be missed in a live performance.
The photographs, also displayed in multipanel format, depict the performers in rest or motion, sometimes with eyes closed. The Shaker Village itself plays a role, too, with its spare buildings nestled in a verdant site. The Shakers provide a foil, since they believed in gender equality and women were founders and leaders of the sect. Their committed life-experiment (which might be called a cult today) becomes not just a model for art-making, but alternative ways of living or what Ms. Ghani and Ms. Kelly call “being-in-common.” In other precincts, this is also called utopia. MARTHA SCHWENDENER
Through March 3. Betty Cuningham Gallery, 15 Rivington Street, Manhattan; 212-242-2772, bettycuninghamgallery.com.
If you can’t get to the Smithsonian’s remarkable Bill Traylor retrospective, you can at least visit Betty Cuningham Gallery and spend an hour or two in front of a blue gouache mule Traylor painted on cardboard. Born a slave and not known to have made drawings before his mid-80s, Traylor came to posthumous fame through the efforts of Charles Shannon, a younger white artist who met Traylor around the time of World War II. Shannon ultimately collected more than 1,200 of Traylor’s drawings, many of them graphic, silhouette-like portraits of animals.
Traylor would sometimes start one of these portraits with a rectangle or flattened oval, as if trying to capture weight and body as general categories before moving on to specifics. But once he’s added delicate hind legs, spindly forelegs, and the muscular slopes of rump and neck, Traylor invariably arrives at something with the eerie singularity of a Sumerian logogram.
Part of it is his uncanny balance of simplification and detail. In “Blue Mule,” it’s a sticklike tail ending in a delicate puff of hair, or the measured rise and fall of an equine back accomplished with three blunt strokes. Part of it is the monochrome, which lets him picture the mule and its shadow simultaneously. And part of it is the distinctly syncopated composition: By placing the drawing’s only element off center, Traylor brings forward the color of the blank cardboard ground, though it can also still read as earth and sky.
But what really makes Traylor’s silhouettes so extraordinary is how nakedly they grapple with the basic mystery of representational art: How can a two-dimensional shape, which we take in at a glance, encompass a three-dimensional object, which we can never see all of? WILL HEINRICH
Through March 2. Howard Greenberg Gallery, 41 East 57th Street, Manhattan; 212-334-0010, howardgreenberg.com.
Vivian Maier’s self-portraits are tantalizing. The street photographer liked to shoot her shadow, the outline of a hat and raised arm darkening a patch of sidewalk or grass. Other times she offered glimpses of her body, as in a 1975 photograph taken in Chicago, Ms. Maier’s longtime home, in which part of her head is visible in a small mirror that lies atop a bouquet of flowers on the ground. The rectangular mirror looks like a picture within the frame, and she seems to be staring out from it.
Ms. Maier took many thousands of photographs while working full time as a nanny, but she almost never showed them; in later life, she didn’t even develop much of her film. She left behind material to fill several storage lockers but no close friends or family. For those who have followed the discovery of her work — including a legal dispute that halted the dissemination of it but was settled confidentially in 2016 — the self-portraits create the illusion of intimacy with a woman who remains unknowable.
The 1975 picture is on view at Howard Greenberg Gallery in the exhibition “The Color Work,” devoted to Ms. Maier’s color photography, in tandem with a new book. (An album of vintage color prints by Ms. Maier will also be auctioned this month.) The show iterates her talent for infusing the everyday with dramatic tension; her scenes of street life are shot through with uncertainty and possibility. In a photograph from 1977, two boys stare out from behind glass with troubled expressions that belie their ages. In a picture from 1960, someone seems to be disappearing into a hedge. The exhibition is a potent reminder that Ms. Maier’s capacity to cultivate mystery extended far beyond herself. JILLIAN STEINHAUER
Through Feb. 10. Callicoon Fine Arts, 49 Delancey Street, Manhattan; 212-219-0326, callicoonfinearts.com.
Before his death in 1991, at age 36, the writer Hervé Guibert forced France to face the horror of AIDS, describing his deteriorating health in prime-time television appearances and in autobiographical books like “To the Friend Who Did Not Save My Life.” Guibert was also a photographer, and this poignant exhibition features 15 black-and-white pictures of friends and lovers he took from 1976 to 1988, the year he received his diagnosis.
Most are nudes shot in dappled light, including a fine portrait of his lover Thierry, his torso illuminated by the light passing through aluminum shutters. Some are pretentiously mannered, like a later photo of Thierry shrouded in a gauzy white sheet; a pants-free selfie in a bathroom mirror is barely more artful than the thousands sent daily on Grindr. Yet in the shadow of the epidemic, and in conversation with Guibert’s novels and essays, these photographs have become documents of lives and loves hideously abbreviated.
At Callicoon a bench is scattered with more than a dozen of Guibert’s books, including French and English editions of “Crazy for Vincent,” his 1989 book detailing his doomed, masochistic affair with a teenager. Vincent appears in three photographs here, first as a snub-nosed boy in profile, then asleep in a pillar of light. In Rome in 1988, months before Vincent fell (or jumped) to his death, Guibert shot Vincent naked on an unmade bed, lit by a single table lamp. The youth’s hairless, unmuscled legs are spread open, his head and arms are cast back in exhausted pleasure, and his mouth is pulled into a smile so blissful it annihilated me. JASON FARAGOB:
金牌救世一码三中三资料【帝】【俊】【墓】【中】，【随】【着】【一】【道】【微】【不】【可】【闻】【的】【空】【间】【波】【动】，【叶】【开】【化】【作】【人】【形】，【落】【在】【了】【地】【面】。 “【该】【死】【的】【六】【道】，【刚】【刚】【的】【攻】【击】【竟】【然】【达】【到】【了】【妖】【帝】【巅】【峰】，【要】【不】【是】.【噗】！” 【一】【口】【淤】【血】【从】【扣】【住】【吐】【出】，【叶】【开】【擦】【了】【擦】【嘴】【角】，【摸】【了】【摸】【还】【有】【些】【隐】【隐】【作】【痛】【的】【后】【背】。 【等】【我】【成】【为】【妖】【圣】，【我】【定】【要】【灭】【了】【你】【们】！！ 【不】【过】，【体】【内】【的】【伤】【很】【快】【便】【被】【玄】【灵】【宝】【玉】【愈】【合】
“【你】”，【听】【到】【柳】【无】【双】【这】【么】【说】，【狐】【妖】【感】【到】【一】【阵】【气】【结】，【看】【样】【子】【对】【方】【是】【不】【打】【算】【放】【过】【自】【己】【了】。 “【你】【什】【么】【你】，【我】【只】【是】【说】【会】【考】【虑】【饶】【过】【你】，【但】【是】【没】【有】【说】【一】【定】【会】【放】【过】【你】【哦】”，【用】【戏】【谑】【的】【眼】【神】【看】【了】【一】【眼】【狐】【妖】，【柳】【无】【双】【嘴】【角】【上】【扬】【莞】【尔】【一】【笑】，【对】【于】【残】【害】【百】【姓】【的】【妖】【族】，【她】【是】【一】【定】【不】【会】【放】【过】【的】。 “【你】【居】【然】【骗】【我】，【卑】【鄙】【无】【耻】【的】【人】【类】”，【狐】【妖】【咬】【牙】
【大】【汉】【用】【熊】【掌】【一】【样】【的】【大】【手】【使】【劲】【拍】【打】【上】【桌】【面】，【把】【那】【可】【怜】【的】【桌】【子】【拍】【成】【两】【半】，“【我】【呸】！【冷】【印】【是】【哪】【里】【钻】【出】【来】【的】【混】【蛋】？【这】【个】【名】【字】【我】【从】【来】【都】【没】【听】【过】！【一】【个】【无】【名】【小】【辈】【也】【敢】【出】【来】【跳】？” 【旁】【边】【再】【没】【人】【敢】【吱】【声】【了】。 【雪】【瑾】【在】【原】【地】【立】【刻】【一】【会】【儿】，【假】【装】【不】【经】【意】【地】【朝】【大】【汉】【那】【边】【走】【去】。【她】【一】【边】【走】【一】【边】【念】【叨】，“【也】【不】【知】【道】【冷】【印】【这】【个】【家】【伙】【到】【底】【跑】【哪】【儿】【去】【了】
“【谁】【敢】【阻】【我】！” 【一】【切】【皆】【是】【发】【生】【在】【瞬】【息】【之】【间】。 【骤】【然】【面】【对】【这】【突】【如】【其】【来】【的】【变】【化】，【不】【光】【周】【边】【海】【域】【围】【观】【的】【万】【千】【修】【士】【没】【有】【反】【应】【过】【来】，【就】【连】【自】【恃】【修】【为】【强】【大】【的】【厉】【幽】【冥】【也】【没】【有】【反】【应】【过】【来】。 【而】【当】【他】【回】【过】【神】【来】【时】，【发】【现】【自】【己】【已】【是】【被】【一】【尊】【古】【老】【的】【黑】【色】【烘】【炉】【笼】【罩】…… 【见】【状】，【厉】【幽】【冥】【大】【怒】！ 【喉】【咙】【中】【发】【出】【震】【天】【的】【爆】【吼】。 【轰】~ 金牌救世一码三中三资料“【不】【知】【道】，”【苏】【剑】【淡】【淡】【的】【说】【道】。 【这】【小】【子】【居】【然】【对】【陈】【队】【长】【也】【是】【如】【此】【无】【礼】！ 【众】【匪】【兵】【一】【阵】【唏】【嘘】。 【他】【们】【很】【清】【楚】，【在】【九】【十】【名】【小】【队】【长】【中】，【陈】【队】【长】【杀】【人】【最】【多】，【下】【手】【也】【最】【狠】。 【虽】【然】【今】【天】【是】【个】【喜】【庆】【的】【日】【子】，【陈】【队】【长】【未】【必】【会】【杀】【人】，【但】【一】【定】【会】【让】【龙】【七】【吃】【个】【大】【苦】【头】【是】【毋】【庸】【置】【疑】【的】！ “【好】！【那】【我】【就】【叫】【你】【知】【道】【知】【道】！”【陈】【队】【长】【也】【被】【苏】
【真】【可】【谓】【是】【唱】【绝】【四】【座】、【余】【音】【绕】【梁】【的】【境】【界】。 【当】【真】【是】【弦】【索】【胡】【琴】【伴】【奏】【下】【的】【婉】【转】【曲】【折】，【倾】【倒】【了】【爷】【孙】【几】【代】，【风】【靡】【了】【数】【个】【王】【朝】，【这】【便】【是】【戏】【剧】，【这】【便】【是】【国】【粹】！ “【海】【岛】【冰】【轮】【初】【转】【腾】，【见】【玉】【兔】，【见】【玉】【兔】【又】【早】【东】【升】。【那】【冰】【轮】【离】【海】【岛】，【乾】【坤】【分】【外】【明】。【皓】【月】【当】【空】，【恰】【便】【似】【嫦】【娥】【离】【月】【宫】，【奴】【似】【嫦】【娥】【离】【月】【宫】。”【这】【个】【时】【候】【上】【官】【临】【雪】【就】【开】【始】【唱】【了】【起】【来】