Tuttle’s signature post-minimalist, pared-down-to-the-point-of-not-being-there sculptures (which he historically preferred to call “drawings”) are more elaborate, snazzy, and decorative than the provocations that created an uproar and made him famous in the wake of his 1975 Whitney Museum exhibition. Textured watercolor paper, wood, aluminum foil, and bits of yarn, wire, and tissue paper are cut and arranged into sharp little compositions. Sixty of them, each about the size of an index card, are mounted in a line snaking around the gallery wall. Some of the motifs looks like designs you’d find on pottery in the artist’s second home in New Mexico, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Others retain the hard-core, unapologetic simplicity of his earlier days.