The thing is not to feel oppressed by the extraordinary mass and heaviness and gleam of it all. Unforgettable is the kerfuffel a while back over the site-specific curve which could neither stay in front of the Federal bulidings (although I loved attempting to have a sandwich atop it) or be moved, given its placement. Interesting that this issue should arise when the movement to take down various statues in New York and elsewhere is heavy in our minds. The Serra is not there any longer, of course, but the flavor hangs around wherever you see Serra pieces: at the Gehry museum in Bilbao, and so on, and now here. Impressive is the flavor of it all, inescapable is the presence of the thing(s).

You walk around, you compare the weight of the sculptures with the density of the black in his drawings, the way the curves fit into one another, the way it has an impact on your mind, and physical state. How different is this black (how does it not feel tragic?) from the small black stroke of a Matisse sketch, from the ponderous thereness of a Motherwell Elegy. Something about depth more than about sinking in. But a Serra piece, drawn or sculpted, staging itself, takes over whatever place you put it in. This gallery, any museum, any street or road or crossroads of traffic.

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The Brooklyn Rail, review by Mary Ann Caws