California these days harbors a whole generation of stoned, amiable ironists, who work at an angle to the High Seriousness of New York. They needle their audience with the suggestion that art, like experience, is inconsistent stuff, vulnerable and quirky, full of tackiness and paradox. Best known among them is a lanky, mercurial artist named William T. Wiley, 34, who lives and works outside San Francisco in a frame house with (shades of Brautigan!) a trout stream flowing beside it. His traveling show, organized by the University Art Museum in Berkeley, opens this...
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