David LaChapelle has always deconstructed images and reconstructed them with the neon brights of pop culture and an airbrush. After reveling in the success of a 20-year photography career that made Warhol proud and Madonna pissed, he suddenly crashed. In his new show From Darkness to Light at Lever House (through September 2) he's deconstructing his process and exposing the frayed edges beneath the gloss. Problem is, caterpillars enter cocoons and become butterflies, not the other way around; after creating a unique aesthetic that pop culture sucked up like Kool-Aid (so unique that he is suing Rihanna for emulating it in a recent music video), his new look struggles to emerge as original.

"Raft of Illusion: Raging Towards Truth" doesn't even try, instead it plunges into art history with the basic equation "fashion photography + art historical reference = art." The connotations from his allusions don't carry across or retain their meaning. What does come across is LaChapelle's earlier aesthetic slowly fracturing as it nears its breaking point.

"Chain of Life," in contrast, flourishes. Looped paper chains hang from the modernist ceiling, interrupting the flow of suits busying through the lobby. Each link is a pink nude photograph forming a drooping umbilical cords of reddish decoration. Somewhere between the biology of photographs and cellular sculptural forms it subtly succeeds.

"Adam and Eve Swimming Under a Microscope" follows the molecular structure of "Chain." Small translucent cutout naked photographs of men coalesce on the floor-to-ceiling windows. LaChapelle's typically vivid colors glow, but their resemblance to stained glass makes them so familiar that the effect is lost. Religious tones and Damian Hirst's butterfly works are too easily alluded to, as are the viral implications in similar Gilbert and George pieces. Both "Adam" and "Chain" seem to be dissecting photography and work best when they don't worry about stitching together parts to form a whole.

LaChapelle is undoubtedly a forceful image-maker. Perversity allowed his commercial work to teeter on the edge, but perversity in the art world is a different animal. If he can use his deeper investigation of the construct of images with the irony and knowing analysis that catalyzed earlier work he may find that his style translates. But he'll have to give up the pop and stop putting things back together.

(Images courtesy the artist, Lever House Art Collection)

You are not going mad. Objects may well be talking to you. And that's what MoMA's new design show hopes. The theme of Talk to Me—on display until November 7th and crammed with over 200 works from designers worldwide—is communication between people and objects. As design and technology have advanced we have apparently developed ways of interacting and communicating with them. Children, who once were content pushing square wooden blocks into square holes, now cry out for touch-sensitive screens and apps.

The premise works and is intensely entertaining. The only danger is that both the theme and physical experience of the show sometimes become overwhelming. You may not be going mad but you may feel like a feeble and fallible human in a much more advanced world.

Design and the Elastic Mind, MoMA's 2008 design exhibition, was the apt prequel and training ground for some ideas in this show. The psychology from then is still present in Talk to Me, but the languages uttered, seen and sensed really push us to the edge of the design frontier this time.

Many pieces are trapped between whimsy and work. Some, such as Emily Read's "Homeless City Guide," obviously have a conscience and pragmatic purpose, while others, like Sascha Nordmeyer's "Communication Prosthesis," are punch lines. Some are mean and sexy, exploring areas of communication that are sensual, elusive and sometimes dark. Karin Baumgarten's objects approximate goose bumps, Sputniko!'s "Crowbot Jenny" prefers to talk with animals through a robot crow, and another work will even physically simulate a menstrual period.

In keeping with curator Paola Antonelli's notion of "pancommunication"—everything and anything communicating in all possible ways—the show excels in its interactive features; QR codes and hashtags for every work, two websites, links galore. But in some ways this is too much self-reflexivity and ultimately distracting. In keeping with the foundations of art history that MoMA rests upon, the pieces that work best are visually engaging. Many plug themselves successfully into less digital and more natural communication modes.

Given the omnipresence of communication, looking becomes a luxury, one that thankfully rescues the viewer from the brink of overload and confirms we are not yet redundant as humans. With a bit of distance and wide eyes Talk To Me offers a fascinating glimpse into our bright, garbled future.

(Photos by Scott Rudd, courtesy MoMA)

If video cameras are the pencils of today, British artist and Turner Prize nominee Hilary Lloyd scribbles, cross hatches and swings her pencil with skill and gusto. Her U.S. solo debut at Artists Space in Soho (through August 21) reveals the magical results.

The works are site-specific and the expansive installation alone evokes indulgence in a crowded, over-compartmentalized city. Lloyd's flat screen panels and custom Unicol poles slice the verticals of the space, becoming not only part of the show but also part of the images.

The desiring, voyeuristic gaze is a concern in much of Lloyd's earlier work, but here it has been refined and formalized, emerging effectively as a slightness of touch. "Thighs" is probably one of the most sensual videos ever made. The camera flirts in and out of focus, a pastel lens glare obscures the image further as the gap between two clothed legs emerges.

The show is an exercise class for the camera. By contrast, we become acutely aware that we are standing still in front of each work. Every piece apart from the central "Shirt" are a result of human movement—a pivot, a nod, a shake; sometimes images combine and escalate to a vibration. But "Shirt" emerges slowly: as if developing with chemicals, a close-up shot of the fabric is slowly revealed, the polka dots visually reflect "Moon," its hyperactive cousin off to the left.

Each work in the show is rewarding, perhaps because of the simplicity, perhaps because these are moments missed or forgotten that we can get back. Through Lloyd's adept camera movements and the strength and confidence of the structures that support these whimsical images, we are focused on the sensitivity and rhythm of looking.

The subjects become irrelevant, a skyscraper, shirt or the moon opening up to reveal the anatomy of the image and the genetics of seduction. In the heat of the moment the pencil or camera disappears, we are no longer looking at videos or even complete images, and it is only that moment that matters.

(Installation view from Hilary Lloyd courtesy Artists Space, 2011. Photo: Daniel Pérez)

The essence of lunch is combining quickly a myriad of ingredients then tossing or flattening them so they just about hold together while you ravenously tuck in before they disintegrate just as they reach the threshold of your bite.

This is a similar process to how Phoebe Washburn makes installations, and this time she too ends up with a tasty product. Nunderwater Nort Lab, Washburn's new exhibition at Zach Feuer Gallery (through August 12; a parallel exhibition at Mary Boone Gallery runs through July 29), combines the bread and butter of her previous installations with the performance of lunch.

A floor-to-ceiling wooden structure made from chunky wood scraps marked with traces of their earlier roles forms the chamber in which Washburn's lunch happens. Like worms prospecting a juicy peach, burrowing holes offer tunnel vision into the laboratory of lunch. No decay occurs inside these holes though; in fact delicate plants seem to be sprouting off the recycled body.

On the opening night food smells wafted through the tunnels and into the gallery space, whilst hungry visitors looked in with hopes of being invited into the food lab to feast with the chosen guests. "Nuderwater Nort Lab" is a dramatic installation, but as with all of Washburn's work, the drama comes from the honesty and sheer labor of the materials, a lack of illusion and a wry humor.

In this piece more than her others, the performance element seems to detract from the minutiae of the construction and the frequent comparisons to the work of Sarah Sze or Jean Shin. Instead here our attention shifts to the process. Every time lunch is made the performance of the event seems to power the work, reflecting back on the arduous construction and the frivolity of lunch as part of a much larger cyclical chain of events. It is something of a battle. The monumental construction without the lunch seems like a cumbersome folly, but during the performance, when lunch takes center stage, the giant arena makes the quotidian meal absurd.

Forget the newest foodie hangout. This is a new way to combine lunch and art, and in the process save the legacy of the lunch break forever.

(Images courtesy the artist and Zach Feuer Gallery)