From Vince Aletti’s review for The New Yorker:
Nearly all of the self-portraits in Arsenault’s show were made in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where the photographer settled briefly after the breakup of a long relationship. But if he was miserable, you won’t find much evidence of that here. Hirsute, tattooed, and frequently nude, Arsenault is more playful than pitiful, arranging his naked body on a high-backed chair with the flair of a fashion model or hiding under a blossoming hydrangea bush like an abashed Adam. And he doesn’t look at all brokenhearted wearing nothing but a white unicorn cape with a decidedly phallic pink horn. Through Feb. 5.