In the front space, by the window, is a little cut-out graphite drawing of novelist Yukio Mishima peering down from a three-dimensional recreation of the brutalist balcony where he gave his failed speech to overthrow the Japanese government moments before committing seppuku in 1970, mounted to the wall like a puppet theater, high up, impotently addressing the rest of the works in the exhibition, which include a life-size drawing of Eugène Delacroix’s tomb beneath a snaking cursive line (the David Bowie lyric that gives the show its title), in between a number of collaged objects and drawings of collaged objects that mine the thornier problems of “queer history,” a precarious fantasia of which this artist is an elegant, hard-bitten analyst.—

