Nairy Baghramian is a kind of surgeon. With exacting precision she peels away the layered contingencies of art and stitches them back together in sculptures that resemble human viscera or appendages. Like our organs, their soft organic forms depend on hard skeletons for support. Leaning on metal frames, gallery walls or doorways, each seemingly precarious construction is a synecdoche for the shaky systems that undergird our perceptions of art: the intentions of artists, the discourse of critics and curators, the architecture of museums and the experiences of viewers. Baghramian’s unruly works are often positioned at defiant odds with the spaces in which they are displayed, as if to suggest that all subjects, no matter how alienated, have power within the institutions they occupy.