Abstraction Roars Back in New York’s Galleries Better Than Ever

Need some proof that figuration is slowly fading away? Consider shows like Oliver Lee Jackson’s at Andrew Kreps in Tribeca, where people melt away into dense agglomerations of wobbling paint strokes. To say that Jackson is disinterested in the figure is not quite true—his paintings are being shown alongside beguiling sculptures of body parts, including one in which two carefully chiseled eyes emerge from a rough slab of marble. Yet in his paintings, Jackson allows his figures to nearly go invisible before allowing them to come back into view once more.

This isn’t pure abstraction to be clear as his paintings develop in time, revealing their secrets gradually. That effect is most pronounced in Painting (1.5.88), 1988, in which a row of flowers cascades through a dark void. Only through extended viewing does one realize that within all that blackness are areas of deep blue, reddish brown, and mucky grey. Look even longer, and one discovers that each of those areas corresponds to a faceless person. Paintings like this one shows that the eye sees what it wants to see, selectively cutting through visual overload and ignoring a lot in the process.

Jackson has only recently emerged on the blue-chip circuit, showing with Andrew Kreps, Blum, and Lisson within the past few years. There can be no doubt that New York centrism played a role in his continued exclusion in the upper echelons of the art market. He worked during the 1960s in St. Louis, where he was within the orbit of members of the Black Artists Group, and then, during the 1970s, he moved to California, where he has been based ever since. Better late than never, though. The Kreps show makes a good case continuing to keep a watch on him.

At 22 Cortlandt Alley, through April 12.

During the 1970s and ’80s, Just Above Midtown, the short-lived New York gallery founded by Linda Goode Bryant, fostered the careers of so many artists that curators and dealers are only just now beginning to take stock of them all. (You can thank T. Jean Lax’s effervescent Museum of Modern Art show about the gallery for helping spur on a renewed interest in that space.) At Paula Cooper Gallery, 47 years after first showing at Just Above Midtown, Cynthia Hawkins has officially entered the spotlight once more with a captivating group of new canvases that make the eye go dizzy.

The basis of these new works was Hawkins’s stroll from her apartment on West 83rd Street to a nearby subway station—a route that she then traced and tilted, so that her map was on a 45-degree angle. Presumably in reference to the interlaced streets of the Upper West Side, grids recur across her recent paintings, where they appear to shoot through planes of yellow and red. But Hawkins’s maps quickly come apart amid brushy expanses of color, lemon-hued orbs, and oil stick scrawls. In that way, her paintings resemble those of Julie Mehretu, who uses plans, maps, and diagrams as the basis for her abstractions before allowing their elements to dissemble and recombine.

Hawkins’s new works are part of a series called “Maps Necessary for a Walk in 4D,” a title hinting at a desire to depict the fourth dimension via a medium with a rich history of two-dimensional representation. At the end of the day, Hawkins’s paintings don’t necessarily rupture the space-time continuum, but it’s hard to fault such an imaginative painter for trying. My favorite of her new works, Chapter 3: Maps Necessary for a Walk in 4D #1 (2024), features a blue grid with hard edges that transforms itself into a warping, elastic one, a net that can’t contain the chaotic matter all around. Hawkins has run green and black oil stick across her grids, creating what looks either like a spark or a fracture that threatens to upend it all.

At 534 West 21st Street, through May 3.

The Kaiadilt artist Mirdidingkingathi Juwarnda Sally Gabori was born in 1924 in Mirdidingki, on Bentinck Island, in Australia’s Gulf of Carpentaria, and didn’t start painting until she was in her 80s, decades after she and the rest of her community were removed from that tiny island by Presbyterian missionaries. The title of My Country (2007), one of her early paintings, suggests an attempt to reclaim her homeland. Yet with its blazing swatches of unmixed acrylic paint, the work never quite coheres to form a detailed view of Mirdidingki. Instead, like a distant memory, it is blurry around the edges.

Crafting My Country was no dour exercise for Gabori, however. She sang while producing her paintings on a worktable at the Mornington Island Art Centre, “keeping us connected to our home on Bentinck Island,” as her granddaughter Tori once put it. For Gabori, creating her art was thus a joyous activity, and that much is obvious based on Rock Cod Story Place – Freshwater (2005), in which a purplish line pulses to create exuberantly hued ripples of scarlet and azure. Named for the ancestor that created Bentinck’s Dibirdibi Country, Gabori’s painting is animated by a desire to find visual pleasure amid so much loss.

Gabori has had retrospectives in Queensland and Paris, but her Karma show is billed as her first in New York. Seeking to gain an audience in the city, the gallery has awkwardly contextualized her within a long lineage of New York painters, name-dropping Clyfford Still and Amy Sillman in its press release while also noting that Gabori’s practice was “developed autonomously from Western art history.” I suppose one could look at her 2009 painting My Country (a title she repeatedly used) and see in its large magenta mass a parallel with Mark Rothko’s fields of red. Yet Rothko was a formalist who found innovative ways of making color appear heavy, and Gabori was something else entirely: an Aboriginal woman who used painting to tell her people’s story. Her color fields are appropriately muddied with white strokes, successfully unsettling the purity of Rothko’s format, whether she meant to or not.

At 549 West 24th Street, through April 12.