By way of Sunday. Shrine, 179 East Broadway, Manhattan 917-463-3907, shrine.nyc.

Frank Jones, who was born in Clarksville, Texas, in 1900, put in significantly of his daily life in and out of that state’s prisons, probably for crimes he did not dedicate, and died in one particular in 1969. Throughout his past decade, Jones made all over 500 drawings, usually on identified paper, signed with his title and inmate variety, 114591. He worked with the stubs of coloured pencils discarded by the prison’s accountants. He was partial to crimson and blue, but also applied combinations of purple, orange and eco-friendly.

Jones’s fanciful images conjure a planet loaded in recommendation, affiliation and attractive invention. He began with a loosely subdivided architectural scaffolding, generally with a peaked roof or a pediment houses, circus wagons, Mardi Gras floats and prisons come to intellect. Just about every subdivision usually includes a splendid creature of some kind — a plumed demon or insect, or traveling fish that are all ecstatically bug-eyed and grinning. Once in a while a a lot more human existence is limned, intimating an elaborately costumed Mardi Gras celebrant. Each individual amount of every single framework is lavishly festooned, primarily with alternating sharp and rounded shapes. The sharp ones are specially functional, conjuring leaves, feathers, fins, tooth, very little banners and perhaps ribbon barbed wire they also provide the creatures as horns, wings, toes or antennae. From time to time the repeating styles of the borders are solidly colored, emphasizing their architectural character. Often they are sparsely striped, primarily with crimson and blue, for a much more clear profusion that resembles lace, quilts or embroidery.

Jones was born with a caul above his eye, which is normally observed as indicating the present of second sight. This perception can be self-satisfying: He claimed to see spirits. But his influences ended up in all probability several, ranging for case in point from jail existence to southern textile traditions. And as is usually the circumstance with self-taught artists, Jones’s operate also features evidence of the collective unconscious, as evidenced by its placing affinities with numerous motifs in the artwork of Monthly bill Traylor, Martín Ramírez and Adolf Wölfli. Whilst likely by this, his next solo in New York, Jones was a genius in his personal ideal. ROBERTA SMITH


By Saturday. Postmasters, 54 Franklin Road, Manhattan 212-727-3323, postmastersart.com.

“Iowa Desires,” the title of Serena Stevens’s New York gallery debut, brings together Midwestern plainness with a a little bit forlorn reverie. Her paintings stick to fit, haunting day to day, mostly domestic, folks-no cost scenes with strangeness — mostly by means of her notice to gentle, paint texture and scale. Ms. Stevens is in the approach of mastering a free, to some degree photographic realism that may well mirror an admiration for the paintings of Edward Hopper and Eric Fischl.

In “Rocking Chair,” the subject matter is spare in design and style, designed of dark wooden and noticed from the back again. It is caught in the coffin-like shaft of light from a tall, narrow window that counters the rocker’s foreshortened form with an elongated, tower-like shadow. Both are suspended in a brushy grayness that resembles mist. “Light Inside” could just about portray a disembodied eyesight, besides it has just enough facts to discover its central glow as that of a rest room window filtered as a result of a white shower curtain. The haunting is most palpable in the nocturnal “Intersection,” in which a beam of light-weight intersects with a targeted traffic indication to sort a sort of off-kilter cross. The scene is witnessed by an invisible a end indicator whose shadow appears on a aircraft of grey brown that slowly defines alone as the broad trunk of a tree. The shadow is evidently cast by the site visitors signal, but they do not appear to match.

I like as a lot as any person (probably extra) the colourful, wittily stylized sort of figurative painting, verging on cartoonish, that is common appropriate now. Refreshingly, Ms. Stevens dissents, turning to an eerie solemnity anchored in but not limited to the true and quite a great deal of the moment. ROBERTA SMITH


Via Oct. 11. Lyles & King, 21 Catherine Street, Manhattan 646-484-5478, lylesandking.com.

Two dozen mainly younger artists, alongside with a few effectively-founded kinds like Rebecca Horn and Mira Schor, seem in “I Want to Feel Alive Yet again,” the putting inaugural group display at Lyles & King’s new gallery place close to Chatham Square. The do the job, in a variety of mediums, is all figurative, or at the very least evokes figuration. Virtually all the bodies are someway altered, mutilated or constrained. But they are not always suffering.

A male with a see-by means of coronary heart, in a portray by Phumelele Tshabalala, is distinctly self-possessed, as is Aleksandra Waliszewska’s girl with a flayed confront. And the temper in Jessie Makinson’s imposing diptych “Skin Spy,” which demonstrates a form of elfin backyard bash, is only a little tense. Vivid colors abound, and so does sex, most notably in Gavin Kenyon’s sculpture “A Scar Is Not a Wound,” whose three bulbous concrete pillars are as phallic as they are figurative, and the 21 ink-soaked plaster tongues of Bhasha Chakrabarti’s set up “Kali.”

For me, although, the linchpin is Sara Rahbar’s “Separation (Confessions),” a pair of cast-bronze arms — her very own — hanging against the gallery wall on two adjacent chains. Are they trophies or equipment? Emblems of the artist’s ability to impress her condition into the entire world, or tokens of her brutal commodification? A phone to unity or relics of dismemberment? It is all of them. WILL HEINRICH