What are young, contemporary artists supposed to make of a museum that simultaneously mounts the shows “Cezanne and Pissarro: Pioneering Modern Painting,” an exhibition that embraces some of the greatest painting of the 19th century, and “New Work/New Acquisitions,” which showcases 24 predominantly slipshod and formally bankrupt artworks by young, contemporary artists – MoMA’s latest additions to its permanent collection?

If a contemporary painter is inspired by Cezanne’s love of form and color, by his passion before the motif, by his mysterious ability to distill an infinite range of relationships into a composition of a few objects on a table, what is he to think when he sees what MoMA has been supporting lately?

What is he supposed to make of MoMA’s recent purchase of Takashi Murakami’s “727” (1996), Neo Rauch’s “Busch” (2001), and Wilhelm Sasnal’s “Untitled (anka)” (2004)? These three paintings demonstrate no feeling whatsoever for the qualities and possibilities of paint (they are trite, inept, and banal, they defy even the “bad is good” approach to art).

What is a contemporary photographer – moved by the wall of small, startlingly frank and humble masterpieces by Eugene Atget, currently on view in MoMA’s photography galleries – supposed to think when nearly all of the photographs in “New Work/New Acquisitions” are conceptual, political, or documentary in nature, or share the inanity of being faceless, glib, large, and badly composed?

Walking among MoMA’s recent acquisitions, I imagined an artist who – inspired by the miraculous sculptures of Picasso, David Smith, Maillol, and Elie Nadelman on view in MoMA’s sculpture garden – was anxious to see the latest works by today’s masters. Inside, he would discover that Sarah Lucas’s social statement “Oh! Soldier” (2005), a ridiculous mess of a figure composed of wire hangers, nylon stockings, suspenders, and concrete army boots, is the sort of contemporary sculpture that gets MoMA curators’ juices flowing.

The artworks in “New Work/New Acquisitions” were supported by the Fund for the Twenty-First Century, established in 2003 and sponsored by a group of museum trustees committed to purchasing contemporary works of art. Primarily made since 2001 by artists born in the 1960s and 1970s, they were acquired by MoMA’s six curatorial departments in the last couple of years. And they reflect a 180-degree change in priorities from a museum once interested in acquiring photographs by Atget or paintings by Cezanne.

The artists come from 14 countries in Asia, North America, South America, Africa, and Europe, and the selection reflects MoMA’s desire to remain current and globally relevant.

During the press preview for “New Work/New Acquisitions” Ann Temkin, curator in MoMA’s Department of Painting and Sculpture, said she and fellow MoMA curator Klaus Biesenbach selected works for the exhibition by artists who “are not concerned primarily with formal properties [but who are] engaged with life, contemporary society, pop culture, the urban scene, [and who are also] stretching the boundaries of their mediums.”

I am so tired of curators’ excuses for their promotion of “relevant” yet incompetent art over art of formal substance. Why do “formal” properties have to be separated from other properties? Why can’t we expect that when an artwork makes it into the permanent collection of MoMA, its creator has control over, and interest in both what he is saying and how he is using his medium? Why can’t we be offered art that is both good and relevant?

In most of the artworks in “New Work/New Acquisitions,” formal properties seem to be last on the list of priorities. There are a few exceptions – some pieces are visually arresting. Fernando and Humberto Campana’s “Corallo Armchair” (2004), a goofy, bright-orange, looping tangle of wire, is fun and springy. Shahzia Sikander’s “No Parking Anytime” (2001), a portfolio of nine etchings, has some dreamy moments. Paul Chan’s strange, 17-minute-long digital animation “Happiness (Finally) After 35,000 Years of Civilization – After Henry Darger and Charles Fourier” (2002) may be over determined and, in light of its politically charged, violent, and sexual subject matter, stylistically glib – but it’s worth watching.

Yet I have to wonder why MoMA’s curators purchased Aaron Young’s video “High Performance” (2000) or Gillian Wearing’s “Drunk” (1997-99). “High Performance,” a three-minute video of a motorcyclist inscribing black circles with the bike’s back tire on a gallery floor, is nothing more than an idiotic update of Duchamp’s “Bicycle Wheel.” “Drunk,” a 23-minute video installation, depicts homeless alcoholics drinking, stumbling, and passed or passing out. They argue, taunt, fight, or embrace one another.

Ms. Wearing’s shamelessly voyeuristic reality video occupies MoMA’s entire Yoshiko and Akio Morita Gallery. It is important, according to the wall text, because it “involves the artist ceding part of her creative control.” My experience tells me that when an artist is on top of his game, as Cezanne and Atget were, he is most definitely “stretching the boundaries of his medium.” He is also most definitely maintaining “creative control.”

If an artwork is good, regardless of its subject matter, period, or country of origin, it most definitely will be relevant – now and always. But try to explain that to MoMA, a museum going blind to its own riches.

June 29 until September 26 (53 W. 53rd Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, 212-708-9400).