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At its best, the David Smith retrospective at the Guggenheim is a pas de deux of sculpture and architecture, each showing the other off to maximum advantage in a rapture of complementary passions. It is beautiful, powerful, and fragile in the way of classical ballet: consummation shivering at the brink of evanescence, which ensues, in this case, as the inevitable, swift breakdown of any aesthetic sensation--and enchantment--so intense and unalloyed. (You wonder, Did I see what I think I saw? and, by the way, What was that?) So it seemed to me, in two or three flashes, as I gazed across Frank Lloyd Wright's atrium at processions of Smith's vigorous poems in welded steel ...