Fine usually gets told as a recovery story, a woman of the New York School overlooked beside the men around her. The story is true, and the paintings make a more specific case than it does. The gallery notes that the Prescience paintings anticipated Color Field “by almost a decade,” and the early grids show where her gesture came from. It didn’t come from nowhere. It came out of a structure she kept testing for the rest of her career.

Wall of Silence is the place to stand. At fourteen feet it is big enough to rearrange the body in front of it. The sweep of the brush works against the geometric fields without erasing them. That tension between the rule and the release is the subject of this whole walk, and Fine got there first.

Ronay calls the cycle of making and exhibiting “a form of digestion,” and he means it bluntly: “The basswood entered the studio, was chewed up, and must exit.” The carved forms are the obvious draw, but the plinths make the argument. A plinth is normally invisible infrastructure. Here it is a remembered piece of Wright, wrong on purpose, built to look like a material it isn’t. The display is authored, and memory works as a production process that bends what it copies.

Walk the whole meander before looking closely at any single object. The route is part of the work.

Uhlir is plain about his method: “I build the image up and take half of it back. This is my technique but also a reflection of how our memory works.” The paintings are about places and the people who loved within them. The real subject is the subtraction, what survives the scraper. The gallery has a good line for it: landscape and marriage, weather and memory, are “the same subject at different temperatures.”

Look for the passages where the blade went through to earlier layers. There the painting shows how it was made, which is also how it remembers.

Cohen is the reason to come. AARON was among the earliest programs built to make drawings and paintings on its own. The works here sit on either side of a question that has only gotten sharper. If an artist writes the rules and a machine makes the marks, where does the authorship live?

The drawings point to Cohen’s answer: it lives in the rules, in the decisions about what a line may do and when it should stop. That is an old idea in art. Instructions get written by one hand and carried out by another, and the artist is whoever wrote the instructions. Cohen handed the instructions to a machine long before image generators made the question a headline. The show frames all of this as a gentle lineage. It works better as a test. Stand in front of the Painting Machine work first, then go to the contemporary pieces and ask which of them have rules worth reading.

Both bodies of work serve something outside themselves: a book in one case, a political stance in the other. On a walk otherwise about rules and the systems behind images, the change is useful. Here the image is in service rather than under examination. Of the two, the woodcuts and their monitor lizard are the bigger surprise.