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The monosyllables of condescension form at the back of the throat and hover in the staging space just before the lips: "twee," "fey," "camp," even "cute." The art under inspection, after all, has that form technically called mushy stuff in syrup: old French hotel ads and stuffed birds and soap-bubble pipes hermetically sealed behind glass, evoking vanished Victorian worlds of Curiosity Shops and steamer trunks and natural-history-museum displays of long-refuted principles. They ought to have dated; they ought to date; they are, in a way, about being dated. And yet something keeps the visitor locked in place, looking, and turns his mind to the warmer, though still not ...