Biennials are boring and bloated—yet we trudge from one to the next. There must be a better way to see art.

A museum custom-built for Richard Serra delivers on its wishes for shock and awe.

The Whitney’s “Summer of Love” show needs to come down from its psychedelic high. The stuff just wasn’t that good.

Takashi Murakami’s show is nakedly commercial; “Underdog” strikes an opposite pose, to much the same effect.

Is Andreas Gursky—the highest-priced photographer alive—running out of ideas?

Rirkrit Tiravanija once again makes dinner for gallerygoers—this time, with self-references as a side dish.

If “Not for Sale,” a glib put-down of the art marketplace, tells us anything, it’s that P.S. 1 needs to make some changes.

The National Academy’s splendid show catches a moment when the New York art world thought painting was dead—and took heroic measures to revive it.

The Met’s new Greek and Roman galleries are perfect for scholars and Byronic dreamers alike.

Venice and Barcelona could accept impurity and flux better than most places—and were all the richer for it.