The Forties, Seventies, And The Nineties, When

I See Artists Bored By Light-without-heat, Irked At Gigantic Galleries' Pushing Out Art-as-product, Leaving Behind The Over Determined For The Undetermined, Guided By Interior Voices And Bringing Us Out Of A Long Tunnel To New Blueness.

'the Panorama' Is Also The Last Place Anywhere In New York Where The World Trade Center Still Stands, Whole, As It Stood In The Early Morning Of September 11. I Can Also See The Corner Where I Saw The First Tower Fall And Howled Out Loud. Seeing The Buildings Again Here Is Uplifting, Healing.

I See Around 100 Shows A Month, Going From Niketown-size Palaces Where You Feel Like Yelling, To Storefronts In Bushwick. Each Has To Pay The Bills; Keep Artists Happy; And Cope With Collectors (oy!), Curators (ay-yi-yi), Critics (woo-hoo!), And Occasionally Plumbers. That Their Fiscal Life Often Hangs In The Balance Only Adds To The Energy.

'summer Of Love: Art Of The Psychedelic Era,' The Whitney Museum's 40th-anniversary Trip Down Counterculture Memory Lane, Provides Moments Of Buzzy Fun, But It'll Leave You Only Comfortably Numb. For Starters, It May Be The Whitest, Straightest, Most Conservative Show Seen In A New York Museum Since Psychedelia Was New.

It's Great That New York Has Large Spaces For Art. But The Enormous Immaculate Box Has Become A Dated, Even Oppressive Place. Many Of These Spaces Were Designed For Sprawling Installations, Large Paintings, And The Relational Aesthetics Work Of The Past Fifteen Years.