Eleanor Swordy titled her exhibition at Moskowitz Bayse “Who Died?”; if someone did die, it’s possible the figures in Swordy’s paintings wouldn’t notice. They’re all engrossed in their own sometimes mundane, sometimes exotic activities. In Auriga Rising, a group of figures resembling midcentury modern sculptures lounges by an exuberant fire. In Domen, a figure perches behind rocks with binoculars, and in The Jeweler, a nude woman sits on a pillow in a rustic living room, tinkering with tools laid out inside a light box. Crayons and paper lie on the floor behind her. All Swordy’s figures have a soft, floppy quality, as if they’re flesh and no bones, and her paintings conjure slightly unreal, cartoonish spaces, in which normal rules of gravity don’t quite apply.