The objects in Margaret Lee’s second solo exhibition belong to a delightfully strange class of things. Arranged on a raised platform in the center of the gallery is a selection of “sculptures,” including a version of Brancusi’s Endless Column, as well as “furniture,” like an Albers-esque nesting table. A “painting” hangs on a wall behind the tableau. The overall effect is similar to that of a stage set or a furniture salesroom display. But the installation also appears oddly flat-a function of the three-dimensional works having been painted white and covered with a uniform pattern of black Dalmatian spots. One imagines that the piece is designed to generate photographs; it’s the perfect backdrop for a selfie. Indeed, if you stand in the right place, Lee’s black-and-white world already looks like a picture, her sculptures hovering in an uneasy space between things and images.