Surrounded by Cornell boxes, one can feel that our usual artistic categories simply don't apply. Surrealism, collage, assemblage, and all the other pigeonholes don't begin to capture the strangeness of what's on display. Or rather, Cornell's boxes capture all those categories. He is the artist of pigeonholes (that early filing system of cubbyholes built into desks), of collections and classification. He seems in some uncanny way to predict our own bizarrely evolving relation to information. Peer into his magical screens, and you see arrayed before you an interfacing world of historical figures and pop culture, equipped with gaming features, as in this "Medici Slot-Machine." The cubes and circles arrayed around the outer frame seem like links to other Cornell screens, as indeed they are. Each work is packed with a maximum of associative links. Dovecotes are hotels for birds that are in turn stand-ins for opera divas who stayed in hotels, as Emily Dickinson, the poet of birds, stayed in her room just as Cornell stayed in his basement assembling this network of information. At the end of Elizabeth Bishop's poem "Crusoe in England," Crusoe's beloved objects find a new home: "The local museum's asked me to/ leave everything to them: the flute, the knife, the shriveled shoes,/ my shedding goatskin trousers/ (moths have got in the fur),/ the parasol that took me such a time/ remembering the way the ribs should go./ It still will work but, folded up,/ looks like a plucked and skinny fowl./ How can anyone want such things?" And yet, as Bishop says earlier in the poem, these objects "reeked of meaning." Joseph Cornell's boxes, which anticipate so much in current art and life, reek of meaning, as Utopia Parkway intersects with the Internet.