You describe the narrative arc of my anomalous memoir Last Night on Earth as dream time. My aesthetic has always been non-linear, fueled by free associations, stories, meditations, gestures. I take great pride in being part of a generation of choreographers who conceived of dance as a sequence of non-linear events, ideas with multiple, omnidirectional layers. My mind works that way naturally.

I’m nearly eighty. I’ve played the tuba as a jazz improviser for nearly fifty-nine years. The tuba, a brass instrument, is not a trombone or a trumpet. It’s big, cumbersome, heavy. Earlier there was never a question. I always played a gig standing up. It’s different now. I sit down because my legs and lower back begin to hurt after an hour of standing. I’m trying to figure out the best way to support the instrument sitting down, using a stand, like a snare drum stand, with three legs at the bottom.

Do I have any philosophical insights about aging? I realize now that I’m well past the threshold of seniority. I was always very interested in people who were older than me, and I was always able to communicate with them easily. Now they’re not someone else, they are me. Or, better said, I am one of them.

Time … friend or nemesis? It depends on who you ask. When we’re young, time propels us ever forward. As we age, time begins to feel different, more finite, less predictable, like a rainbow muted by shadow. Time reveals who we are and what we’ve become. Its pace, once we reach a certain age, can feel relentless.

Michael Brenson’s biography on David Smith, more than twenty years in the making and exceeding eight hundred pages, now stands as the definitive portrait of this American sculptor. There were times when close friends feared that the book would remain unfinished because its subject was just too daunting. But its author persisted—a Herculean undertaking requiring endless hours of research, extensive interviews, and an informed sculptural imagination. The fruits of his inquiry shine as a biography honoring the breadth and complexity of Smith's life and art.

Kahn has painted in the fertile gap between representation and abstraction for more than forty years: landscapes, seascapes, flowers, cells, and human bodies distilled into evocative images. An ethos unites Kahn with kindred modernists—Hilma af Klint, Kazimir Malevich and Wassily Kandinsky, Arthur Dove and Albert Pinkham Ryder, Rothko and Barnett Newman—who courted ambiguity as a pictorial language of equivalence.

Many archival gems are featured in Back in Town, the homecoming exhibition organized by Robert Scalise and Jason Andrew at the University of Buffalo’s Anderson Gallery.

The lure of lucre means different things to different people, depending on who you are and who you aspire to be. When business and big money brand so many vectors of the cultural landscape, it’s refreshing to see market-elevated icons like Andy Warhol and Vincent van Gogh handled, as they are in Donna De Salvo’s Warhol retrospective at the Whitney Museum of American Art and Julian Schnabel’s new film, At Eternity’s Gate, in ways that restore their humanity by focusing on the art—where, how, and when it got made.

Price’s unconventional sculpture captivated my imagination more than twenty years ago when I saw it in New York at the Willard Gallery on East 72nd Street: a tiny forest of finely sliced and brashly painted amorphic mounds, so outrageous and yet so right.