Several of Waters’ film influences come to the fore in works such as Swedish Film (2000), which pauses on a disturbing moment from an Ingmar Bergman classic when an old woman begins to peel her face off—serving also, perhaps, as a metaphor for the masks of theater and celebrity. In 21 Pasolini Pimples (2006), Waters creates an abstracted collage of acne spots snapped from the faces of the controversial Italian director’s youthful male protagonists. And Jean Genet, another prominent, openly gay figure in twentieth-century cultural history, is eulogized in Stolen Jean Genet (2014), which reproduces Genet’s original headstone stolen soon after it was erected (in Waters’ fantasy, by the artist himself).

The more pedestrian, commercial realms of the movie industry also receive the artist’s treatment. Bad Director’s Chair (2006) presents a ubiquitous object on film sets that here is emblazoned with every insult a director might receive: HACK, TESTED BADLY, NO SHOT LIST and DGA REJECT. The hilariously tiny photograph Straight to Video (2002) captures another phrase once dreaded by directors and producers in the days of VHS tapes and DVDs; its minute size evokes the negligible impact of so many films that are made and quickly forgotten.

At the other end of the success spectrum, noises emanating from Sound of a Hit (2006), replay the steady “cha-ching” of money being exchanged inside a box office in Baltimore on the opening day of the Harry Potter film franchise. More than just a one-liner, this work also calls to mind avant-garde precedents in the art world, from the monochromatic abstraction of Malevich’s Black Square (1915) to Robert Morris’ storied conceptual work, Box with the Sound of Its Own Making (1961).

The world of movie memorabilia provides the backdrop for Waters’ surreal and fantastic sculpture Fellini’s 8 1/2 (2014). Based on an actual promotional item handed out in Baltimore when Fellini’s movie was released, Waters’ object enlarges it from 8 1/2 inches to 8 1/2 feet, reflecting the outsized role of the film and its long afterlife in popular culture.

A less-invasive but still costly path to taught skin is the subject of La Mer (2009), which features a many-times-enlarged container of the popular anti-aging cream—one of Waters’ guilty pleasures. The artist’s daily routine comes to light in a different manner in 45 Days (2003): Each day, Waters writes a to-do list on a filing card, prefaced with the number of days since he’s had a cigarette. As he completes a task, he crosses it off the list, adding anything unfinished to the following day’s card. Overall, the impression is of diligence and hard work, but also of an abstract field of lines akin to the swirling scrawls of Cy Twombly, an artist whose work Waters admires.

With Bill’s Stroller (2014), we see yet another side of Waters’ life. A decade ago, he adopted a fake son, Bill, a “reborn” baby who was sculpted to look completely real. This carriage, with its leather bondage straps and fabric printed with the logos of now-defunct gay bars in New York, San Francisco and LA, offers Bill an unusual seat, while also commenting on the immense shift in queer American life from an earlier “underground” existence to one that is open to family-oriented park strolls and playdates.

Children are also the subjects of Waters’ twisted—if clean-cut—film Kiddie Flamingos (2014), which is based on his X-rated and frequently censored cult classic, Pink Flamingos (1972). We watch as a group of schoolkids performs a table read of Waters’ “remake” of his own film—now heavily redacted and self-censored to accommodate his new cast. As children 10 and younger take on the guises of Waters’ frequent cast members, including Divine and Mink Stole, precociousness and absurdity collide.

The other world within which Waters regularly circulates—the world of art, and its peculiar people, business and traditions—is another frequent subject of his pointed and poignant works. R.I.P. Mike Kelley (2014) eulogizes the celebrated artist, and friend of Waters, who died tragically in 2012 and played a crucial role in the history of contemporary art, particularly in Los Angeles. Kelley’s works cut to the core of the suburban American psyche, and several of his memorable sculptures involved cats. Waters’ homage, which gives a nod to several of Kelley’s own materials and approaches, consists of an urn for pet ashes that he sourced from a retailer and embellished with idiosyncratic additions, including an engraved heart.

Cancel Ansel (2014) riffs on the work of another art figurehead, the photographer Ansel Adams, whose meticulous photographic techniques could not be farther from Waters’ own; where Adams used large-format cameras to capture pristine scenes of nature, Waters shoots pop culture straight from his television screen. Eight of Adams’ black-and-white landscapes are stacked together, and in each, the photographer’s beautiful scenery is puckishly defiled by Waters’ digital inclusions: A giant cruise liner sits in a serene mountain lake, wind turbines dot a majestic cloud-filled landscape, and an airplane, trailing smoke, descends dangerously into a valley below. Amid a sunlit grove of redwoods, a masked figure peaks out—Waters himself—giving the audience an obscene gesture.