Everything about this show, beginning with its banal title—since when is shipping art from Vienna some radical emissarial act?—feels lazy. Giraux’s large wall-hung cast rubber sheets mimic abstract silver-sprayed canvases. If the technique deployed in their production is unusual, their framing—literally and figuratively—strips them down to bare-bone decorative panel. Dietrich’s found cabinets, encased in painted MDF plinths, are a weak riff on Modernity’s collapse into white-cubism. The artist’s gestures are sterile, lacking even the slightest curiosity about his material. The gallery’s affected refusal to serve as the works’ context, finally, aborts this misguided mission.