Chances are good that you've already seen parts of "Handmade," an exhibition of videos made by the Australian artist Tracey Moffatt in collaboration with her film editor, Gary Hillberg. The seven videos, which span the period from 1999-2010, are montages of hundreds of television and film clips spliced together into narratives organized by the themes indicated by their titles (e.g., ARTIST, MOTHER, and LOVE). Part of the game of watching the films as they are projected one after the other onto the four walls of the smallish, semi-enclosed space they occupy in Artpace's Hudson (Show)Room, is to try to recognize the source of Moffatt's clips.

Shakespeare in the Park performances generally tend to cut one of two ways: great fun or embarrassingly bad. San Antonio’s own Shakespeare in the Park, produced by the Magik Theatre, is putting on Twelfth Night, and it fortunately leans much more toward the former than the latter.

Twelfth Night is a comedic story of mistaken identity in which Viola (Brandi Hollsten) is separated from her twin brother Sebastian (Jared Stephens) after a shipwreck in the land of Illyria. Viola, posing as a eunuch named Cesario, goes to work in the court of the Duke Orsino (John Cheuvront), and finds herself as the go-between for Orsino and Lady Olivia (Ariel Rosen), who spurns the Duke’s advances but finds herself taken by Cesario’s dainty charms.

Director Melissa Marlowe conceptualizes the play in the vein of a 1960s beach party movie, doing her best to push a lighthearted, young Frankie Avalon mood.

In every major city in the country, there is at least one theater bold enough to produce little-known original works and be successful at it. In San Antonio, the Overtime Theater currently holds that enviable distinction.

In the company's latest offering, The Decorator, a chic one-act play by Jeffrey Strausser, two frustrated housewives employ an interior design pro whose marketing materials promise a complete home makeover. This post-Sex and the City, estrogen-filled, multimedia production isn’t the best example of what this theater can do, but it certainly is a girl’s-night-out comedy to die for.

On the second floor of the San Antonio Museum of Art, off the hallway connecting the museum's collection of Japanese art (the entrance guarded by the grimacing black mask and glittering ceremonial armor of a samurai) with the rooms devoted to Chinese and Korean art, is a small room  containing seven prints by the French-born artist Paul Jacoulet (1902-1960). The prints are smaller than I expected them to be when I first saw them reproduced in Richard Miles's The Prints of Paul Jacoulet, but their diminutive size (about 10.2” x 15.4”) adds to one's sense of their exquisitely restrained yet lavish perfection.

Although they depict real men and women — usually shown singly in isolation, but occasionally paired — whom the artist encountered and recorded in his far-reaching travels throughout Asia, taking great pains at every turn to record with ethnographic precision the richly detailed clothing, jewelry, and tattoos of his subjects, the placid and elegant yet astonishingly rich surfaces of Jacoulet's prints lends to these pictures an otherworldly quality, as if they were colored windows through which one can glimpse exotic worlds far removed from here.