THE Joan Snyder survey at the Jewish Museum, a helping of serious fare during the doldrums of the late summer season, is exasperating and invigorating in the proportions you might expect if you’ve followed Ms. Snyder’s career. For nearly 40 years, she has been the kind of artist whose strength has frequently been her weakness and vice versa – that is, her operatic, restless, almost shameless need to pile everything, emotionally, autobiographically, even physically speaking, into her paintings. More is more, she is fond of saying. And sometimes it is.
As the art critic Jed Perl, a longtime admirer of Ms. Snyder, has put it, the unpredictability of her work “is an aspect of its richness.”