A Sad Fact Of Life Lately At

Anybody Who Writes Knows The Horrible, Wonderful, Beautiful Foulness That Comes Every Week. A Lot Of Moaning, Screaming Agony - "oh My God, The Deadline's Coming."

As I Went Through 'this Progress,' One Of Two Performance Pieces By Tino Sehgal That Transform Frank Lloyd Wright's Emptied-out Spiral Into A Dreamy Socratic-purgatorial Journey, The Museum Literally Fell Away. I Was Suspended In Some Weird Nonspace.

'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'm Noticing A New Approach To Art Making In Recent Museum And Gallery Shows. It Flickered Into Focus At The New Museum's 'younger Than Jesus' Last Year And Ran Through The Whitney Biennial, And I'm Seeing It Blossom And Bear Fruit At 'greater New York,' Moma P.s. 1's Twice-a-decade Extravaganza Of Emerging Local Talent.

It Took The Metropolitan Museum Of Art Nearly 50 Years To Wake Up To Pablo Picasso. It Didn't Own One Of His Paintings Until 1946, When Gertrude Stein Bequeathed That Indomitable Quasi-cubistic Picture Of Herself - A Portrait Of The Writer As A Sumo Buddha - To The Met, Principally Because She Disliked The Museum Of Modern Art.