Here’s perhaps the best living septuagenarian artist you’ve never heard of. An outsider with insider links (John Baldessari is an old friend), Morris toys ingeniously with conventions of painting and sculpture in San Diego, where he has worked in bookstores for the past fifty years. Tiny abstractions inventory and burlesque types of “expressive” brushwork. Pictures of faces in profile are painted too badly or too well, or somehow both, to define the Pop style they suggest. Best are Morris’s “guns”: detritus reliefs that distantly assume pistol and rifle shapes with very free, infectious cadenzas of wood scraps, shoe parts, fabric, rope, nails, plastic, and, say, a brush, a clothespin, a whistle, a pint tube, or a toy nightstick.