GOINGS ON ABOUT TOWN: CLAIRE SHERMAN

The craggy, storm-soaked vistas of Sherman’s paintings seem to await the entrance of a desolate mermaid or a vengeful queen. But in the commanding landscapes on view here, not so much as one lonely hawk appears. Stillness suffuses the wild scenes, which are constructed in big, overlapping brushstrokes. Impasto bands of emerald, royal blue, and lavender grow like crystals, with lines razored in by hard bristles. Specificity of place is not Sherman’s subject; “West Ridge,” the show’s title, is a feint. (Which West Ridge? There must be a million of them.) The oils in the front room, lush and grand as they are, have competition: each of the mixed-media works in the back, saturated studies of sea caves and magic trees, is a tiny knockout.