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Modern museums have their origins in the German wunderkammer, or cabinet of curiosities, collections of objects assembled by European aristocrats that included everything from goblets to unusual biological specimens. The Cabinet at the Frick Collection, a modest space between the gift shop and the stairwell to the bathrooms, doesn't hold the same range of marvels. In ''A Passion for Drawings,'' a show of 10 works on paper, donated by Charles Ryskamp, a former Frick director who created the Cabinet during his tenure in the late 1980s and '90s, functions almost like a wunderkammer, offering a curious window into nature, history and politics. On the biological end is a watercolor by Pierre-Joseph Redoute (1759-1840), a Flemish-born artist who published about 2,100 botanical engravings. The watercolor here, of two plum varieties, is a study for an unrealized engraving. What's also interesting about Redoute is how he navigated the vagaries of patronage during a complicated historical period: before the French Revolution he worked for Marie Antoinette; afterward for Empress Josephine, Napoleon Bonaparte's first wife and a fanatic of roses, Redoute's specialty. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

In a 1965 essay on postwar science-fiction films Susan Sontag noted a common ingredient: a ''depersonalization'' of the characters, a kind of emotionless zombie state that occurred when their minds were taken over by aliens or robots. Some of this, she wrote, reflected the basic conditions of modern life. But it also pointed toward something new in the nuclear era. Now humans had to contend not only with the fear of death but also the ''psychologically insupportable'' possibility of a ''collective incineration and extinction which could come at any time, virtually without warning.'' Art of the 1960s exhibited similar symptoms of depersonalization. Where anxiety and trauma sat on the surface of slashed, burned and dirt-crusted canvases from the 1940s and '50s, or in the emaciated forms of Giacometti's sculptures, by the late '50s the personal, existential and emotive were replaced by a new detachment. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

Portraits were not just a popular genre in the early days of this nation; they were among the only art that patrons would pay for. As a result, many American artists went abroad, hoping to test their abilities on juicier subjects, like allegorical or historical epics. But portraiture has remained an important American genre, something that can serve as a springboard to larger ideas. This is evident in some of the works in ''American Portraits: Treasures From the Parrish Art Museum'' in Southampton. Rather than proceeding chronologically, the exhibition moves through the human life cycle, a tack that feels appropriate for portraiture. The show also emphasizes the importance of a sense of place -- something that can get lost in the white-wall art space of a museum or gallery -- by featuring lots of local landscapes and East End artists. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

One of the good things about art history is that it is always being rewritten. In the case of the New York School, that self-described Greatest Generation of midcentury artists, newer histories have moved past the singular, heroic-figure narrative to emphasize the era's inherent collectivism and internationalism, and the presence of women -- and not just as wives or lovers. ''Esteban Vicente: Portrait of the Artist,'' at the Parrish Art Museum in Southampton, starts with one artist, but quickly -- and thankfully -- opens up into one of these broader, more inclusive chapters. Vicente (1903-2001), a Spanish-born artist who lived most of his life in New York, was best known for his collages, and a big red abstract-floral one greets visitors at the entrance. A watercolor by his contemporary Philip Pavia, ''Freefall No. 2'' from 1959, hangs nearby, however, turning the installation immediately into a dialogue. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]