Of all art media, video is probably the most difficult with which to engage viewers. This seems preposterous when one considers the amount of time we spend in front of screens, but maybe that’s the problem. Video art is composed in the language of entertainment, yet so little of it is entertaining.

The photographs in New Mexico and New York: Photographs of Georgia O’Keeffe at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum are hardly transcendent. Except for a few formal portraits and some on-location shots that serve as illustrations of the landscapes she painted, the work is closer to a family photo album than an art exhibition.

UN's premise is audacious and funny, but curator David Solomon’s approach to unrepresented artists also is a missed opportunity. It is a gesture steeped in benevolence, but the subtext of inferiority (or is it superiority?) to the local market interferes with an otherwise strong assembly of work.

It is on the vast voids of the American West and the aesthetics and implications of distance and long-haul shipping that artists Shelby Shadwell and David Jones have set their sights.

David Kapp may hope to be called the new Diebenkorn, but that would imply that Diebenkorn had been replaced, and the long memory of art history doesn’t always work that way.

A few months ago, I was working with a woman who was employed by a hotel chain. Her job title was ‘interior designer,’ which meant she was responsible for picking and purchasing everything from lamps and bedspreads to the “art” that I was screwing to the walls.

Zeitguised, a duo based in London, created “Peripetics,” a short video of CGI vignettes that was so odd I had to watch it twice.

On the first day of my first photography class, my teacher laid some ground rules: “no cemeteries and no homeless people.”

In one fell swoop every idea I had was voided.

It is widely agreed the human race is in grave danger. For many of us, destruction is a foregone conclusion. Be it sudden incineration via nuclear explosion, the slow asphyxiation of our ecosystem that follows the crushing impact of an errant comet, the infestation of for-profit schools or socialized medicine, make no mistake, you are in constant mortal peril and each day you survive is a little gift.

My dutiful acquiescence to a conservative and clichéd role of the artist as hermetic intellectual is thrown into sharp relief as I look back over my notes detailing the colorful and frenetic mayhem that covered all six surfaces of the Meow Wolf exhibition space—a realization that simultaneously provokes an inward chuckle and also makes me feel very, very square.