Dullness, it seems, is catching. Even acknowledged masterpieces of photographic art become dowdy in its presence. In MOMA’s revisionist history of women in photography the very considerable contributions of the female sex are downplayed in favor of a curatorial vision of intractable drabness.

Where are the great works of Julia Cameron, of Helen Levitt, of Jan Groover, of Margaret Bourke White, of Florence Henri, of Imogen Cunningham, of Ringl + Pit, of Lillian Bassman and Louise Dahl Wolfe, of Deborah Turbeville, of Berenice Abbott, of Marion Wolcott, of Cindy Sherman, of Sally Mann, Susan Meiselas, Annie Leibovitz of countless others? Either under-represented, misrepresented or not represented at all.

Instead we get what has to be the least interesting example of every photographer present. And a wall full of Rineke Dijkstras, a photographer who has become famous for what surely are the dullest portraits on record– and far too many from Judith Joy Ross, her precursor in dullness. Not to mention a healthy sprinkling of examples from that favorite contemporary genre: masochistic narcissism (or is it narcissistic masochism?) and its sister genre, the exhibitionist nude self portrait.

Perhaps it is the bias towards a flat-footed portrait style in favor of reportage, fashion, still life, landscape, and cinema-derived imagery that confers such stodginess on this show. Great works there are, Tina Modotti for one is represented fairly, but generally they are buried alive under this mountain of mediocrity whose general flatness is so stultifying even the color work seems grayed out.

If this were a manuscript for a novel, I would suggest the writer throw it out and start over.

Start over, MOMA.