In Tony Oursler’s new work at Lehmann Maupin, splatters of paint seem to come alive. Seven monochrome splotches, frozen in place and blown up to near-human proportions, hang from the walls. In each, a small slit is cut away and the space filled by a close-up video of a fragment of a body — usually an eye or mouth — with the surrounding skin painted the same color as the color blob. Imagine the yellow smiley face on psychedelic drugs, and you’ll have some idea what these strange, animated works are like.

Mr. Oursler is best known for his video art, but he has for many years worked in a variety of mediums. Part sculpture, part painting, part video, these new pieces depict the encounter between the elegant paint splatters, whose forms vaguely recall the shapes of countries on a map, and the messy corporeality of the human body, as depicted in the performances for the camera. One video describes a squirm-inducing tour from head to toes. In the others, the focus lingers on an eye or mouth, which is oddly morphed through computer manipulation and invariably shown to have a goopy, liquid quality. Paint may dry, the work implies, yet the living body is forever moist.

And it moves. Lips are licked; jagged teeth are flaunted. Eyes blink and glass over.

Over time, the movements suggest a sort of frustrated expression, as if the splatters are trying to engage you. In fact, some of them — those with mouths — actually do.

“Why is the sky blue?” muses the blue blob, before setting off on a meandering monologue, which culminates in threats to “kill you.”

“Are you trying to trap me?” asks the white, his paranoia seemingly heightened by his exaggerated pallor.

The red blob murmurs of love. His words, whispered so softly that they are barely perceptible even if the gallery is otherwise silent, beckon you closer. When the speech is over, the tongue slathers between his thick lips, forming a throbbing red mass evocative of a heart.

Also on view is another recent body of work by Mr. Oursler that explores color. In place of animated biomorphic blobs, there are ordered arrangements of five to 11 white-framed works on paper; each grouping constitutes a freeassociative riff on a single color. Individual frames contain a variety of imagery: vaguely scientific-looking diagrams, images specific to a particular color (colorblindness charts for green, NASA scans for blue), or, in one common motif, a disembodied, painted face floating in space.

This last eccentric form recalls Mr. Oursler’s recent statement that “The artist or the artwork is the alien and the viewer is the earthling or the one who I’m trying to communicate with.” But the satellite-head fails to communicate much of anything. Whereas the color blobs have a tactile, fleshy face, this free-floating head is all mind, no body. If there is a lesson in this show, it is that the dry mental concept needs the complement of a wet sensuous form. Otherwise it is incomplete, light as air, frivolous.

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The centerpiece of Robert Gober’s new exhibition at Matthew Marks Gallery is a multipart sculpture comprising a stool, a milk crate filled with green Granny Smith apples, and a melted Winchester rifle.

Enthusiasts of the artist’s work, who consider such arrangements to be full of narrative and symbolic suggestion, will find plenty to ponder. In the flaccid rifle, or in the way its slithering form seems to allegorize with the wooden stool and the pile of apples, you can easily read themes of sexuality and religion, though this famously reticent artist does little to support any particular interpretation. Also noteworthy is the work’s loving craftsmanship. The piece may look like an assemblage of found objects, but it is actually a collection of exquisitely rendered handmade forms; the stool, the apples, the crate, and rifle are all sculptures made of beeswax, plastic, and other materials that are meant to look exactly like the actual objects they depict.

For nearly a generation, many in the art establishment have celebrated Mr. Gober as a master whose work represents an idiosyncratic fusion of conceptualism, minimalism, and surrealism. But his art is also a particular taste; what is lyrical and profound for one viewer is prosaic and mundane for another. To me, the work offers just enough strangeness to be mildly intriguing, and no more. And at times, the combination of reticence and measured quirkiness can feel like a calculated tease.

But fans and critics alike, I imagine, will agree on this point: The current show, which also contains drawings — preparatory sketches for the melted-gun installation as well as images that recall previous iconic forms by the artist (a sink, an extended leg) — and a few less evocative sculpted works, is hardly Mr. Gober’s most memorable work. This is not the show to convince skeptics or win a new audience. Not all enigmas are created equal.

Oursler until March 24 (540 W. 26th St., between Tenth and Eleventh avenues, 212-255-2923); Gober until March 10 (526 W. 22nd St. and 521 W. 21st St., both between Tenth and Eleventh avenues, 212-243-0200).