As old age consumed Goya, his art grew purer and ever more closely observed.

A retrospective at MoMA proves that Edvard Munch was more about muffling emotion than about letting loose.

Every two years comes the critical sniping: “deplorable,” “childish,” “occasionally repulsive.” Have the curators of this year’s Whitney Biennial finally figured out how to make the show matter?

Why is the art world so drawn to William Kentridge? Because he’s the rarest of political artists: a subtle, funny one.

The Guggenheim figures out how to evoke the graceful sculptural groupings that David Smith favored.

Rauschenberg’s Combines, now at the Met, are rich and dense in a way that has to be seen to be believed.

In 2005, the bubble didn’t burst, and the Chelsea gallery scene kept expanding—while heavies like Matthew Marks and Damien Hirst called attention to themselves (yet again). The Met reestablished its stellar reputation. Digital art took a small step forward. Oh, and someone put a bunch of saffron fabric in the park.

Two shows remind us why museums need to look beyond their marquee names.

Sure, Richard Tuttle’s work is art about art. But it also makes you want to keep looking.

The early Renaissance genius Fra Angelico painted even crucifixions with a glowing, ineffable warmth.