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the installation. When queried, the artist, Benjie Kooba, whose “Semen Dreamin’” piece at the Smith Street Atelier last spring was criticized by the Purity Commission as the cause of wholesale nocturnal improprieties among morally susceptible citizens, remarks: “Don’t ask me!” He is wearing loose-fitting trousers of unbleached linen, well-worn sandals, and a black T-shirt, the very picture of the hot young artist. He is just adorable, despite his snaggle tooth and things.

HYGINUS RILLE
    The annual Groundbreakers exhibit consists primarily of the “Effete,” as the useful if not especially knowledgeable catalogue insists on calling the various imagings that comprise this year’s show. Debbie Danfort, the curator of the exhibition, is, not to put too fine a point on it, a “dumb broad,” as they say in the meatpacking district’s hippest and hottest diners, even though she occasionally reviews—you’ll pardon the expression—new fiction, whatever that may be, for The New York Times Book Review. In any event, this year we have wild maladies of the sky, green shades, the radiance, the radiance, the stars’ bliss in blissful heaven, seasons in the evening, and a green beast, a bloated beast, a beast serene in the purple shade of a copse called “Satan’s Ear,” and a sleepy, mildewed, fat beast to, as they like to say, boot; then there is a startling display of summer, broiling, humid, stinking, rotting, with its moisture, its heat, its sticky sidewalks, madness, crime, murder, lust, and noise, rank blooms, sagging trees, overgrown gardens, tough jays and dusty grackles and boss crows, the sweet virtuosic repertoire of grey mockingbirds on the evening air, from black trees, from rose skies, from beyond the blue hydrangeas, next to which stands an authentic honest-to-God young virgin in white linen dress, white stockings, white shoes, her hair tied back in a chignon with a white silk ribbon, it’s too good to be true, her hand extended toward one of the massive nodding blooms. All this has been managed so as to arouse the brittle laughter of the cruel, the stupid, the shambling half-dead in putrefyingly expensive clothes; whose seams gap and tear; whose seams pop open or rip immediately upon wearing; “who may die before their time, Deo volente,” some bitter and unpleasant person says on an elevator.

J. HERSCHEL
    Visions of a Visionary: J. Herschel and His Times
Photographs and Memorabilia from the J. Herschel Collection
    J. Herschel with a letter to his mother; J. Herschel with a bouquet of moss roses; J. Herschel where his love lies dreaming; J. Herschel and the fifth Mrs. Herschel having their “morning ride” at Rancho Seymour; J. Herschel posing with a letter from his mother; J. Herschel and Harry Norman pore over Norman’s collection of musical gems; J. Herschel in pursuit of the young ladies of the Slocum Musical Society; J. Herschel arguing for “social restraint” in the well of the House of Representatives; J. Herschel playing a bunting horn; J. Herschel and an unidentified woman in the bath; J. Herschel throwing nickels and dimes to a group of freshly washed homeless people; J. Herschel studying one of his 412 dubious Picassos; J. Herschel playing “Jealousy” on an electrified accordion; J. Herschel beating out some hot jive on a fourteen-karat gold tambourine; J. Herschel playing with himself and others at Ascot; J. Herschel under the piano with a young maid dressed in his fourth wife’s clothes; J. Herschel giving his celebrated talk, “Let’s Read a Lot,” to members of the Stanford University English Department; J. Herschel and Mr. Carney Grain dressed as Sisters of Charity; J. Herschel and the “mighty drum major,” Julian Scott, enjoying a few Super Bowl heroes; J. Herschel lunching on nuts and weeds at the Wallace Stegner Foothills Cottage; J. Herschel dressed as Doctor Music; J. Herschel claiming that some of his best friends are Jews; J. Herschel on a quiet evening in