For a time, I lived in a little town in upstate New York. The point was to “get away,” even though I didn’t know what I was getting away from. Sometimes, to relieve myself from the boredom of my own words—I was trying to write—I’d take a walk in the village; I especially liked to stop at a store where I once bought a beautiful big light bulb. The store was like an old curiosity shop, and I liked being enveloped by its warmth. Later, I learned that it was operated by the artist Nancy Shaver, and suddenly everything made sense: the small space was curated with a discerning eye. It’s that eye—the uniqueness of it—that you’ll see in Shaver’s jewel of a show, “Bus Stop” (at the Derek Eller gallery, through Jan. 10). It’s a show about squares—how, when they are assembled in …
For a time, I lived in a little town in upstate New York. The point was to “get away,” even though I didn’t know what I was getting away from. Sometimes, to relieve myself from the boredom of my own words—I was trying to write—I’d take a walk in the village; I especially liked to stop at a store where I once bought a beautiful big light bulb. The store was like an old curiosity shop, and I liked being enveloped by its warmth. Later, I learned that it was operated by the artist Nancy Shaver, and suddenly everything made sense: the small space was curated with a discerning eye. It’s that eye—the uniqueness of it—that you’ll see in Shaver’s jewel of a show, “Bus Stop” (at the Derek Eller gallery, through Jan. 10). It’s a show about squares—how, when they are assembled in interesting ways, they can yield different emotional landscapes. But Shaver’s squares, composed of wooden blocks and fabric, or paper and acrylic, have a rigor that doesn’t invite comparison with anything but themselves. She’s no Mondrian, she’s a Shaver, and, as such, has her own idea about form, which, despite her interest in the grid, isn’t tight: her colors and ideas jump out at you with the force of the best abstraction. One witty piece, “Fruit Box,” for instance, encases blocks in various shades of blue and orange in a looser but no less intentional display—it’s Shaver taking Joseph Cornell for a spin, and coming out on the other side as less romantic, certainly, but no less joyful about how form itself tells its own story.
“The Wall Project,” from 2022-25.Art work by Nancy Shaver / Courtesy Derek Eller gallery; Photograph by Adam Reich
Earlier in her career, Shaver made different work and, over at the elegant American Art Catalogues gallery and publisher, a three-part show will display some examples of Shaver’s pictures made in the nineteen-seventies that are a very nice complement to the work at Derek Eller. (Some block pieces are at the American Art Catalogues as well). Curated with sensitivity and finesse by the artist Jared Buckhiester and the gallerist Grant Schofield, the gelatin-silver prints—one nicely cropped picture is from a Sears catalogue—belong in spirit to the Pictures Generation, a group of artists, including Cindy Sherman and Robert Longo, who were responding to Watergate fatigue and a world defined by image-making. (MTV was just around the corner.) But Shaver’s images are more inward, and so delicate in their evocation of themselves—the picture’s the thing—that they gather like beautiful vapors in your head and stay there, like a weather front you can’t forget.—Hilton Als
About Town
Performance
For those without family to see—or with family who don’t want to see them—the holidays can be a drag. Cue the pencil-mustached entertainer Murray Hill, who created a Christmas variety show for this subpopulation in New York City twenty-five years ago. Since then, “A Murray Little Christmas” has found a wider audience, as has Hill in other endeavors, including a role on HBO’s “Somebody Somewhere.” That show’s stars, Bridget Everett and Jeff Hiller, performed at last December’s iteration; this year, expect more celebrity guests, holiday songs backed by an eleven-piece band, and a choir or two, with Hill’s risqué humor and warmth stringing everything together. Suggested attire: festive, fancy, or, for those on the naughty list, furry suits.—Dan Stahl (Alice Tully Hall; Dec. 19-20.)
Post-Punk
For the past fifteen years, the Detroit band Protomartyr has established itself as a standard-bearer of noise and post-punk. The group took up their mantle when front man Joe Casey joined the already-paired guitarist Greg Ahee, bassist Scott Davidson, and drummer Alex Leonard, and the quartet harnessed a whirlwind Motor City sound on their albums “No Passion All Technique” (2012) and “Under Color of Official Right” (2014). Planted firmly at the center of the band’s maelstrom appeal was “The Agent Intellect,” a dynamic album from 2015 that stretched a mystifying and blistering songcraft to its breaking point, moored by Casey’s arcane lyrics and lurching baritone. This show commemorates that defining LP’s tenth anniversary; the record has only grown more urgent with time.—Sheldon Pearce (Warsaw; Dec. 19.)
Off Broadway
The cast of “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee.”Photograph by Joan Marcus
“Phylactery”: a small box containing Hebrew texts sometimes worn by Jewish men during prayers. It’s also one of the fiendishly difficult words given to contestants in “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee,” now getting its first N.Y.C. production since a Tony-winning Broadway run from 2005 to 2008. The revival has been updated with occasional topical references, but its power derives from the innately dramatic contest structure, so ingeniously developed by the late composer William Finn and the book writer Rachel Sheinkin that each elimination comes as a surprise. The characters, such as the self-important, mucosal William Barfée (Kevin McHale, of “Glee”), are as eclectic as the words they spell; the show’s greatest triumph is revealing the humanity behind their idiosyncrasies.—D.S. (New World Stages; through April 12.)
Dance
The choreographer Marla Phelan is interested in the birth of stars—not Barbra Streisand or Lady Gaga but the cosmic kind. Working with the astrophysicist Blakesley Burkhart, she has made “Birth + Carnage,” a dance production in which performers mimic the patterns of star formation and other celestial motion. The dancers’ bodies are influenced by gravity but also by human forms of attraction and repulsion. Constellating, colliding, and collapsing, they mirror a digital installation of astrophysical computer simulations, drawing emotional coloring from a score by James Newberry.—Brian Seibert (La MaMa; Dec. 19-21.)
Movies
Jamie Lee Curtis and Emma Mackey in “Ella McCay.”Photograph by Claire Folger / Courtesy © 2025 20th Century Studios
With “Ella McCay,” James L. Brooks, a longtime rom-com champion, directs his first feature film in fifteen years. In some ways, it’s a blatant throwback, but, in others, an acrid tweak of the genre. The action is set mainly in 2008, when Ella (played by Emma Mackey), a thirty-four-year-old policy wonk who is her unnamed state’s lieutenant governor, ascends to the governorship. Then her private life goes haywire: her estranged father (Woody Harrelson) shows up, and her husband (Jack Lowden) feels neglected. Flashbacks to Ella’s adolescence set up her dilemmas; despite the heartwarming story that’s revealed, this is an anti-romantic comedy of failed males and the trouble they cause. Brooks gazes hopefully at a new generation of self-unsure men whose acceptance of weakness is their strength; as for Ella, she’s merely the movie’s figurehead. Jamie Lee Curtis plays Ella’s worldly-wise aunt.—Richard Brody (In wide release.)
Off Broadway
Remember when you were eight years old, climbing trees, carrying your bike up with you, and then pedalling off the school roof? Me neither. But such is the world of Rajiv Joseph’s “Gruesome Playground Injuries,” in which the dauntless Doug (“Succession” ’s Nicholas Braun) does exactly that, then meets Kayleen (two-time Tony winner Kara Young) in the school infirmary, where she’s recovering from a stomach ache. Subsequent scenes hop forward and backward in time, each centered on forms of harm: an eye blown out by a firecracker, thighs slit with a razor blade. The actors’ transformations to embody their shifting ages, abetted by Sarah Laux’s evocative costumes, are a tour de force, but neither they nor the queasy attempts at humor prevent the feeling of watching trauma porn.—D.S. (Lucille Lortel; through Dec. 28.)
What to Listen to
Hua Hsu on alternatives to the usual holiday tunes.
By now, you’re probably tired of all that holiday music. It sounded great as you were clearing the dishes on Thanksgiving, but the mirth has begun to feel oppressive. Here are some alternative expressions of good will, cheer, and peace on Earth.
Jackson 5, “In Japan!” A Christmas soul playlist that was on non-stop rotation eventually sent me down a Motown rabbit hole, reminding me of this live gem recorded in Osaka in 1973. It captures the Jacksons in a moment of transition—no longer the cherubs of “ABC”—and experimenting with a looser, funkier sound.
Mavis Staples.Photograph by Elizabeth De La Piedra
Mavis Staples, “Sad and Beautiful World” This is one of the year’s most surprising albums, in which the eighty-six-year-old gospel legend covers everyone from Curtis Mayfield and Leonard Cohen to Frank Ocean and Sparklehorse. Lush and serene, with a spryness that makes you feel hope for what lies ahead.
Kim Chang-Wan, “An Essay with a Guitar” There’s a scene in the Korean filmmaker Park Chan-wook’s deliriously grim “No Other Choice” set to Kim’s “Let’s Walk On,” a delicate, haunting piece of loner folk. Kim’s 1983 album is a sparse guy-and-guitar masterpiece, a slightly bummed soundtrack for looking out the window as the sun sets at 4:30 P.M.
Real Lies, “Summer Rain EP” The London duo Real Lies make dance tunes that manage to feel epic and twee at the same time. They’ve been one of my favorite acts for more than a decade, and I admire how they never do things the easy way. Their latest single came out in November, yet it’s an amped-up celebration of bygone bliss called “Summer Rain.” It’s simply too soon to look forward to 2026. But I know that, when the time comes, I’ll still be nodding along to “Let the Lips Fall Where They May,” a breezy blast of New Order-esque pop.
P.S. Good stuff on the internet: