Since she came on the scene in the mid-1970s, Sherrie Levine has made art that couldn’t exist without that which came before it. Levine’s insistence on her project’s inherent secondhandness has meant that her work is often understood as illustrating the toppling of “originality” and “authenticity” by the bowling ball of postmodernism. Yet, as much as her infamous reworking of extant “masterworks” (by Walker Evans, Egon Schiele, Constantin Brancusi, and the like) have operated to critically account for inequities in art’s production and reception, they have succeeded, too, in nudging otherwise opposing strains into grudging conversation. Indeed, Levine’s oeuvre might be seen as what Deleuze would call a minor-and I would call a feminist-literature, constructed from the discords of the “major” it boldly siphons from. “I don’t think it’s useful to see dominant culture as monolithic,” Levine asserted in 2003. “I’d rather see it as polyphonic with unconscious voices that may be at odds with one another. If I am attentive to these voices, then maybe I can collaborate with some of them to create something almost new.” J. Burton, “Sherrie Levine,” Artforum, New York, Summer 2006, p. 351