“Sanctuary” is a reminder of just how singular an artist Puryear is. It’s a serious work of contemporary art that seems to have fallen out of a fairy tale—not the monophonic Disney kind but the capricious, found-object kind collected by the Brothers Grimm, in which the moral is oblique, anything can come to life, and nobody leaves unscathed. Born in 1941, Puryear came of age at a time when sculpture was flexing its muscle through intimidating scale, conceptual rigor, and protractor-perfect geometries. (Think Richard Serra, Nancy Holt, and Mark di Suvero.) For a moment, Puryear almost seemed to fit.

The biographical facts are improbably cinematic. On his mother’s side, he traced his ancestry back to the Borgias; the family tree included a pope, a saint, the viceroy of Peru, and his grandmother, the rabble-rousing feminist Flora Tristan. (Karl Marx was a fan.) Gauguin’s childhood might have been dreamed up, tag team, by Gabriel García Márquez and Émile Zola. When he was an infant, his family set sail for Peru, where his journalist father planned to establish a left-wing newspaper and his mother hoped to reclaim an inheritance. His father dropped dead en route in Tierra del Fuego, but his mother continued on to Lima with her two small children, joining the palatial household of a great-uncle. She never got the money, but as one of the rare Europeans to take a serious interest in pre-Columbian art, she acquired a substantial collection of ancient Moche ceramics. Those animated dogs and portrait heads would burrow deep into her son’s imagination.

Both the right-wing empire and the left-wing Commune had ended in pointless, bloody, self-inflicted tragedies. The survivors, at least some of them, had learned to mistrust big ideas. An art about nothing might seem a strange defense, but the act of paying attention to what is rather than what should be—to the particular and ephemeral rather than the abstract and eternal—could be a bulwark against the seductions of ideology.

In the standard telling, the story of midcentury American art is a saga of hyperbolically talented painters working large and abstractly to manifest an existential encounter between man (notwithstanding the occasional begrudged woman) and material. “What was to go on the canvas was not a picture but an event,” in Harold Rosenberg’s catchy 1952 formulation. Canvas-as-event became a publicity magnet, inspiring popular news items like Life magazine’s 1949 “Jackson Pollock: Is He the Greatest Living Painter in the United States?” along with decades of New Yorker cartoons. On the home front, however, in private houses and apartments, things were different.

Visitors to Huyghe and Parreno exhibitions are faced with a similar task: working to form a coherent picture from scattered inputs. There is no way for a viewer to really understand how weather data might be affecting the Tabernas video feed or whether the sounds that emerge from “Liminal” or the A.I. newscaster are, as the artists claimed, embryonic language. You can believe the proffered explanations or not. Either way, you’ll know you’ve made a choice, which is undoubtedly the point.

f all the ways that today’s plutocrats spend their billions, founding an art museum is one of the more benign, somewhere behind eradicating malaria but ahead of eradicating democracy. The art in these museums is almost always contemporary, reflecting the dearth of available old masters along with a global chattering-classes consensus that avant-garde art is socially, intellectually, and culturally important. Few of these tycoons, though, are likely to find the stakes as agonizingly high as Albert C. Barnes did.

Strangeness is overused as a selling point in contemporary art. There’s no real reason that “strange” should equate with “good,” and anyway most of what gets called strange trades on century-old surrealist tricks (jarring juxtaposition, biomorphic distortion, sexual kink) that are no longer strange at all. Every once in a while, though, something comes along for which no other word really suffices—something whose strangeness is not a strategy or a goal but the by-product of following a certain line of thought. Something whose strangeness creeps up on you, as it must have done on the artist as she worked, and changes the way you look at things.

A century after Constantine, Saint Augustine, a Berber from what is now Algeria, asked: “Who now knows which peoples in the Roman Empire were what, since we have all become Romans?” Two centuries after that, Emperor Heraclius considered moving the capital from Constantinople to Carthage, in present-day Tunisia. Visitors to the exhibition would do well to leave at the door any contemporary assumptions about the geography of wealth, power, religious animosity, and ethnic identification.

If the history proposed here were mainstream art history, museumgoers today would be as familiar with Lenore Tawney and Sheila Hicks as they are with Agnes Martin and Sol LeWitt. But the dominant art rhetoric (if not art objects) of the late Sixties and Seventies had eyes trained elsewhere: minimalism, conceptualism, land art. The grid appeared everywhere, but like a tradesman elevated to the gentry it was cleansed of its warp-and-weft associations. In her 1979 essay “Grids,” Rosalind Krauss pronounced it “emblematic of the modernist ambition within the visual arts” not for its connection to the everyday but for its refutation of it.

The paralyzing wee-hours panic that haunts the art professions is the thought that maybe, after all, art is just stuff, like shoes or placemats. The mantra repeated to ease that dread has for centuries been “meaning”: art is different from stuff because, like great literature, it has something to say about what it means to be human, how we live our lives, what we believe. The catch, of course, is that “meaning” is so vague and malleable a concept, it borders on meaningless.

The setting for Archibald Motley’s bright and bumptious dance scene Blues (1929) was a café near the Bois de Boulogne frequented by African and Caribbean immigrants, where he would sit and sketch into the night. The subject is unquestionably modern, as are Motley’s smoothed-out surfaces and abruptly cropped edges, but the gorgeous entanglement of musicians and revelers—the chromatic counterpoint of festive clothing and faces that come in dark, medium, and pale—recalls far older precedents, such as Paolo Veronese’s The Wedding Feast at Cana (1562–63), the enormous canvas at the Louvre that people back into when straining for a glimpse of the Mona Lisa.

History, Kentridge wants us to understand, is like his sculptures, or his films, or his drawings on concatenated book pages. There may be an instant where it all comes together and makes sense, but it’s we, not the data, who make the sense—“make” as in “manufacture,” as in “making it up.” Our brains are hardwired to find meaningful connections among any sensory inputs. We can’t help it. (This is a game at which art critics, like gamblers, habitually overestimate their skills.)