Review: The doyenne of concrete and Coca-Cola

On the fourth floor of the Museum of Contemporary Art right now stands a phalanx of mannequins sporting plaid button-downs, tinfoil bandeaux, flower leis, ski caps and cowboy hats, designer jeans, velvet tailcoats and many less easily identifiable accessories. Immense, mysterious wooden tools lie prone near neatly framed advertisements for hi-tech stereos. Clunky-yet-sensitive concrete radios huddle together while X-rays of a skull lifting a glass of wine to its missing lips hover close by. Haun...