Full responsibility

Two – not one but TWO – works of art fell off the wall during the “Los Angeles 1955-85” Exhibition this Summer at the Centre Pompidou. On two separate occasions – yes, TWO. Don’t they know how to hammer a nail?

Well, apparently, an internal investigation was required in order to answer this question. Although I’ve never witnessed such an investigation, I would imagine that it entails Pompidou president Bruno Racine pointing at curators and art handlers and screaming “YOU, you must be the one to take the blame!” until somebody breaks down and cries.

In the first instance, it would appear that Bruno must have seen quite a few of his good people shed a tear before he obtained a full report. Indeed, the art handler blamed the restorer who blamed the person who then hung the piece who in turn blamed the restorer. Peter Alexander’s untitled 1971 piece is a vertical bar of resin nearly eight feet long. Some people would find it surprising that a big bar of resin should be hung on the Pompidou’s walls but that’s the subject of another discussion. “YOU, you must pay attention!” as Bruno would say.

So Peter Alexander’s untitled 1971 piece was about to be installed when art handlers noticed that a small metal ring inserted into the hanging hole was loose! Oh my! A restorer was immediately called in to glue the metal ring back on. Yes, some people are on-call for their knowledge of glue. She then instructed the people who were to hang the piece (I wonder if they’re called the hangers) to let the glue set for 24 hours. Well it would appear that some of her wisdom was “misinterpreted” because the work was hung that same day. It fell from the wall that very same night.

Now, of course, the Pompidou takes full responsibility, blaming the restorer who was an outside contractor. Bruno said, disapprovingly, that “It is clear the instructions should have been made in a written form.” Yes, had it been done by a glue specialist of the Pompidou, he would have known to make a little sign specifying “YOU, you must LET GLUE DRY FOR A FULL DAY!”

As for the mysterious incident of the falling Untitled Wall Relief of 1967 by Craig Kauffman, Bruno had to admit that his investigation was inconclusive. The convex bubble of acrylic-painted Plexiglas, whose upper edge slotted into a wall-mounted molding, just fell and broke after 130 days of apparently stable display. Then again, Bruno suspects that the hanging might have been flawed. You see, it was fabricated by the lender and its installation was overseen by an objects conservator that was not employed by the Pompidou. What’s more, according to Bruno, if the hanging was flawed, a visitor may have touched the work and dislodged it from its mount leading to its fall later.

Now that’s what I call taking full responsibility…

It's for your own good

After the foiled terrorist attack on planes going from Britain to the U.S. on the 10th of August, taking a plane will never be the same… until we are distracted by something else and fall back on old habits.

Just a few days ago, I took a plane from Montreal to London with my laptop, two books, a gigantic bottle of water and an eyelash curler. One never knows when an eyelash curler might come in handy. The woman sitting next to me spent most of the flight guzzling a fluorescent sports drink and hugging a teddy bear big enough to take up half her seat. I tried not to pass judgment.

Had we traveled 24 hours later, we would have had a very different experience. After being stripped of shoes, belts and jackets to go through security, all that we could have brought on the plane would have been stuffed in a clear plastic bag allowing for easy screening and quick detection of teddy bears and eyelash curlers because the former can hide a multitude of weapons in its fuzzy belly. As for the latter, well, one never knows when it might come in handy... The restrictive list of the items we are allowed to fly with is now reduced to what could be called necessities:

• Pocket-sized wallets/ purses, plus contents (contents may not include explosives, weapons, any form of liquid, but I guess you can still have a bit of money)
  
• Passports/ travel tickets (might be a bit complicated to travel without them)
  
• Prescription medicines, not in liquid form unless verified as authentic (does the security personnel have to take a dose?)
  
• Essential medical items, eg diabetic kit (considering all these restrictions are apparently aimed at our safety, it was considered best to allow for a few bottles of insulin on board less these safety measures actually cause a passenger's death)
  
• Glasses & sunglasses, no cases (you might need them to see the films that will be screened to distract you from the fact that you couldn't even bring a book on board because you might have distracted the cabin crew with an impromptu dramatic reading)
  
• Contact lens holders, no solution (I'm sure Boots is on it's way to developing a dry storage solution but a bit of spit will have to do for now...)

• Baby food & milk for those with infants - bottle contents must be tasted by accompanying passenger (now is not the time for that brussel sprout flavored puree unless you really want to know why your child spits it out more than he swallows it)
  
• Essential sanitary items for infants (at least children are still allowed a minimum of comfort)
  
• Female sanitary items, unboxed (so everybody in the plane can know it's that time of the month)
  
• Tissues, unboxed, or handkerchiefs (because Keys, but no electric key fobs (are Tasers allowed if they're also key rings?)
  
  Sure, it's a very short list considering all that we took for granted as essential to a comfortable flight just a few days ago, but that's nothing compared to the list of items allowed in the British Library's reading rooms:
  
• No bag larger than 29x21x10cm may be taken into the Reading Rooms

• In addition to the above, no more than one clear plastic bag may be taken into the Reading Rooms, and, if required, a clear plastic bag for a lap top computer.
  
• You must comply with all requests for inspection: staff may open and inspect your personal possessions (including bags, sealed envelopes, folders, personal computers etc) as you enter and leave the Reading Rooms.
  
• You may not take outdoor coats into the Reading Rooms. Outdoor coats include overcoats, waterproof clothing of any length, outdoor jackets e.g. bomber, quilted, sheepskin, puffer, fleece and leather jackets etc. (This is not a place for fashion)
  

Items that could harm the collections are not allowed in the Reading Rooms. These include, but are not limited to: pens, food, drink, sweets (including cough sweets), chewing gum, glue, bottles of ink, correction fluid, cleaning liquids, scissors, knives (including craft knives and razor blades), highlighter pens, scanner pens, adhesive tape and umbrellas.

It's not clearly mentioned in these rules and regulations, but eyelash curlers are not allowed either. One never knows when a reader might be tempted to curl a few pages of a rare manuscript in a moment of boredom.

These rules are clearly aimed at the protection of the British Library's collection. It's your right not to respect them, but then you will not be granted access to the collection. In this case, responsibilities and rights are clearly spelled out: respect the rules, get access to the books.

But what are the responsibilities and rights implied by the new rules applied to air travel? We are told that these strictures are meant for our own security so we blindly accept them. Then again, we don't really have a choice if we need to take a flight, so we resort to rationales along the lines of "I don't like it but I'd rather go through that knowing that everybody has to do it which should insures my safety."

I agree that many systems cannot function without rules and regulations, some measure of control, but I start getting a tingly feeling of discomfort when the power to apply these rules is attributed to a rather conceptual entity (Airport Security? National Aviation Security Committee? Department for Transport? U.S. Government? British Government?) and when I'm told it's all for my own good. That's what parents tell their children when they don't want to eat their brussel sprout puree and can’t be bothered to explain why the dreaded green mush should be so beneficial...

Beyond the Cocoon

I have to admit that the world of art academia which also happens to be “mine” is… sometimes out of touch with, well, everything but the very narrow topics that you can base a PhD on. Academia is like a cocoon in which one can live self sufficiently for long periods of time without much real contact with whatever might be happening beyond the book lined partitions. No matter how much we claim, within the confines of a seminar, that our research is aimed at a wider public or will make a real difference outside of universities, we fail to realize that this “wider public outside of universities” doesn’t know what we do and might actually not care. Why should they want to read 300 pages on the preservation of chocolate sculptures, the motif of walking in visual art and the metaphysical meaning camouflage in architecture. I know I would gladly pour over these morsels of research because it’s just so interesting. How do they come up with such obscure topics? How, exactly, is this supposed to make a difference for the guy behind the counter at the off-license, my GP or my grand-mother? But if you don’t step out of your cocoon often enough, you start taking for granted that everybody can define Modernism at the drop of hat and that nobody could possibly sport a mullet without irony in this day and age.

My wake-up call came last week. You see, my circle of friends in London is comprised mostly of graduate students of art history and cultural studies so the re-hang of Tate Modern’s permanent collection has been at the forefront of our discussions lately. Yes, yes, we really talk about it. A lot. Too much. But it’s important. Really.

On a sunny day, while picknicking in Russel Square after our annual feedback meetings, we were having just such a discussion. It couldn’t have occurred to any of us at the time that, had one of the mildly exhibitionist sunbathers overheard our conversation, he would certainly have thought “What a bunch of ponces! What the hell are they talking about? Why are they not paying any attention to my much too small animal print bathing costume?” Indeed, we wouldn’t have noticed his overexposed, tanned to a crisp nudity because we were aghast with disbelief over the fact that a Lichtenstein picture had made its way in one of the States of Flux galleries! Yes! The wing devoted to the early twentieth-century movements Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism! How ridiculous, how unacceptable. We all agreed and there a minute of silence brought on by the shame that such a thing could happen in such an important museum…

A few days later, I found myself relaying that vital information to S, thankfully not of the art world. I said “I can’t believe a Lichtenstein picture made its way in one of the States of Flux galleries! Yes! The wing devoted to the early twentieth-century movements Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism! How ridiculous, how unacceptable.” Within a second, his expression slipped from blankness to utter amusement. He didn’t even have to reply “Ooooh! You don’t say. Now that’s really horrible.” The smirk on his face was enough to make me realize that certain concerns don’t have much currency beyond the academic cocoon…

Image: © Estate of Roy Lichtenstein/DACS 2002

Luxury lies in the details

As I could ascertain when I spent a night in one of London’s five star hotels, to get a glimpse into the type of lifestyle that will always be out your grasp is a strange experience. First of all, upon entering the large and ornate, yet not quite ostentatious building, finding the reception proved to be quite a challenge. Of course, no institution as posh as this one would dare have something as vulgar as a reception area in its majestic entrance hall. Instead, obscenely expensive and useless objects such as cigar guillotines and designer smoking jackets were displayed in glass cases. Beyond this museum of sorts lay a decadent art deco bar: dark, over furnished, over decorated and overpopulated with louche people sucking on cigars. Behind this den inequity, I finally located a vaguely more official looking area, commonly known as the reception.

After checking in, half expecting the icily polite woman behind the wide polished granite counter to tell me that I couldn’t be admitted because I didn’t have the minimum annual income required to be handed over a card key that could open the door to a life of luxury, I took the lift up to the third floor where my suite was to be found.

As I walked down the wide hallway covered with hideously flowered carpet, I was struck by how plush it felt under the worn soles of my tattered sandals. When I opened the heavy door, I was shocked by the amount of space, awed by all that tasteful, useless emptiness: a vestibule?! A lounge!? A bathroom bigger than my kitchen and, let us not forget, a bedroom bigger than my lounge!

I spent long minutes wandering from room to room and giggling insanely before realizing that true luxury lies in the details: the clichéd watercolors are not nailed to the walls, there are proper wooden hangers in the wardrobe, everything is discreetly embroidered with the hotel’s logo, the curtains are ugly beyond belief yet they’re so heavy that they seem to block even the sound of real life happening beyond the windows… oh yes, and the fact that I have to leave in the morning.

I see...

Here I was in the middle of a gallery, kneeling on the floor with my eyes closed, caressing an arte povera bronze sculpture. Still, no security guard materialised to interrupt my fondling the art. That’s because I had relinquished my sight for a few minutes in order to experience part of a Touch Tour, one of these special guided visits that most public museums organise for visually impaired visitors.

I’d had a good look at the big lumpy sphere before touching it and the kindly curator of Access and Special Events had explained its origins and its significance to me, pointing out that visitors especially liked to kick this piece. Although this tale of hardship was quite touching, the protuberance inspired no sympathy, but the feeling of its cool, hard surface under my gloved hands was quite pleasant on this warm day. By giving it a little tap I could feel that it was hollow, hence a lot lighter than it looked, yet still immovable – even with a good kick. The fact was that touching this artwork, even through cotton gloves, was a great deal more pleasant than looking at it.

When I opened my eyes about a dozen people had gathered around to watch the unusual scene. Most were probably waiting for the police to drag me away, kicking and screaming, from the artwork I was hugging but a few just wanted to know what on earth I was doing and why I was allowed to break the rules of the institution. I left the kindly curator to deal with the angry mob as I had to go to another gallery for a similar tour with a group.

When I got to the museum, five partially sighted elderly ladies were patiently waiting for me. They had been kind enough to accept me in their group and wanted to know all about my research, asking questions (Aren’t you a little old to be a student dear?) and volunteering valuable information (I have a son who’s single and he has done studies too) even as the guide was explaining the rules of the tour. After spending about fifteen minutes removing all jewellery and donning attractive latex surgical gloves, we set out to touch our first artwork: a life sized male nude.

The ladies didn’t seem too taken with the history of this handsome bronze archer, but when the time came to touch, their interest was renewed. They somehow mostly avoided the naughty bits and concentrated on the height and the posture, commenting either on the material (Oh! It’s cold!) or on the form (He looks just like my son who’s single and who has done studies), but when the last participant approached the sculpture, she looked so frail next to this epitome of virility that I somehow feared she would be crushed. Yet, she felt her way around the torso, then moved the tips of her fingers gingerly down both arms and as she wrapped her arms around the sculpture she let out a high pitched exclamation: Oh! He has such a nice bum! Maybe she couldn’t rely on sight anymore be she could still clearly appreciate the aesthetic value of the piece.

As the ladies cackled I could only reach one conclusion: art is much more pleasurable when it can be touched.

The Loaded Silence

The grey-blue carpet fades into the grey-green walls which in turn seem to slowly absorb a bumbling speaker swathed in a grey-brown three piece tweed suit. Maybe this blurring is caused by the lack of fresh air or by the obligation to sit still and silent for hours on end, but most elements that constitute an academic conference tend to blend into each other in such a way, leaving the conferees with an indistinct impression of their day – with the exception of one’s own presentation, of course.

Yet, there is usually one aspect that stands out as the hallmark of each event, no matter how uniform. Whether it’s the utter incompetence or the dazzling charisma of a speaker, the quality of the catering or finding out that someone else is writing on what you thought was YOUR topic, these elements of surprise are usually one of the redeeming values of the academic conference.

It’s with this thought that I coaxed myself out of bed at 6h a.m. on Monday morning to take a train that would lead me to one such event. I didn’t have to wait very long to be shocked as the first speaker, an elderly professor leaning on the lectern for actual support more than for dramatic effect, referred to “negroes” as a “minority group often the target of disgust”.

I believe that my jaw fell to my knees at the utterly racist turn that his paper was taking. There was a light rustling sound likely to have been caused by the cringing discomfort of a room full of academics confronted by a politically incorrect statement issued by a peer.

When the speaker stopped reading and the question period started, any mention of the slur was carefully avoided, so carefully in fact that nobody spoke. Perhaps nobody dared add to the significant discomfort that was already felt, but after a few seconds of loaded silence, it was obvious that only the lectern was still supporting him.

Art will cover the world

Foreboding electronically controlled gates opened before us and we stared at each other, hesitant to walk forth into what looked like the parking space of any industrial storage facility.

After going through a security screening and signing a form waving all kinds of rights we rarely ever thought about, we expected to enter a sacred mausoleum of some kind or at the very least a version of Ali Baba’s cave: rooms filled with glittering artistic treasures, crown jewels of Britain’s art world. Instead, in the decidedly cold controlled environment of the museum store, we were surrounded by crates piled high, dusty plastic covers, glass cases and retractable screens. The art in storage looked somewhat gritty, a Giacometti sculpture wedged between a Beuys blackboard and a Kieffer painting suddenly felt a lot more accessible than the very same artwork elevated on a plinth, strategically lit and accompanied by a facetious wall text.

A nice man gave us a guided tour of the facilities. He told us all about the major obstacles to the preservation of art: humidity, de-accession policies, theft, arson, insects. But he assured us that all these threats were more or less under control. In fact, the preservation team was doing such good work that the store would soon have to expand, taking over a great part of the area. An expression of terror glazed his blue eyes as he went on “In fact, if we keep on like that, the earth will eventually be covered in art.”

We could all adopt a work of art to liberate the overcrowded stores of our national museums. For instance, I could live with a Giacometti sculpture in my lounge and use a Beuys blackboard to write weekly “to do” lists. The world would be a museum as Baudrillard argues when he states that, were museums really democratic, they would be taken apart by the people who could claim a right to bits and pieces of it.

I’m not sure that was exactly what our guide meant, but I would not be surprised if one day his fear of art taking over the world got the better of him and he smuggled a termite colony into work.

Travel: a Good Lesson in Ignorance

If it is true that travel broadens the mind and raises the spirits, it is also true that it can drastically shrink your shrewdness and lower your ability to communicate.

I was reminded of that while spending an academic weekend in Warsaw. At Luton airport, having a coffee in the departure lounge, I felt confident that I would easily find my way around. After all, I was equipped with a Rough Guide and an extensive Polish vocabulary consisting of yes (tak), no (nie), thank you (dziękować) and the name of my gracious host (Wojtek). Warsaw would be my oyster.

As I tucked in for the night in a child-sized cot set up in a room I was to share with two of my colleagues for the next three days, I was reminder of how small an oyster could be. Did that dampen my spirits? Absolutely not! Between museum visits and talks about art all delivered in infinite variations of accented English, I inflicted my knowledge of the local language on whoever was at hand.

When a kind academic refilled my beer at dinner and I responded with a resonant “dziękować”, I found myself trapped in an even tighter corner than my sleeping quarters: the kind man enthusiastically responded in long tirades of perfect Polish which made no more sense to me than any other series of soft and hard sounds. I resorted to the one viable option I could think of: smile and nod in the hope that nobody would notice my utter bafflement. When my subterfuge seemed to work and the deluge of sounds kept coming, I shed my pride and resorted to the ultimate option. Still smiling, I called out: “Wojtek!”

If I couldn’t hold up my own in a conversation without sounding like an opinionated yet polite three year old child, at least I had a friend who could translate.

No! Why? What if... Aaargh. All right then!

Why do we rely so much on things that we know so little about?

Take, for instance, a computer. Used on a daily basis for various tasks, this wonderful machine allows you to surf the Internet, to consign your every precious thought for posterity, to fill your tax report and to play chess. It easily becomes your main means of communication with the world, your most discreet confidant, the repository of all your knowledge. It is an extension of you. Your computer improves your life in significant ways. That is, until it starts ruining it.

Indeed, one day your computer starts freezing, gives you incomprehensible messages when you are asking it to perform simple tasks or simply stops responding to your input, turns a deaf ear to your supplications. Then you go through the five following stages :

• Denial and isolation : there is no real problem with it. If I just turn it off and leave it in a corner for a while, it will be fine the next time I turn it on.
• Anger : The bloody thing is still not working the next time you attempt to use it and you are angry at it for the hurt it inflicts on you. You may even be angry with yourself for letting this take place even if, realistically, nothing could have stopped it.
• Bargaining : At this stage, you consider making bargains with your computer such as, "If I change your hard drive or give you a brand new antivirus, will you agree to be functional again?"
• Depression : You feel numb and have lost hope. The mere sight of the computer makes you want to crawl under your bed and spend a few weeks lying there in complete immobility.
• Acceptance : When the anger, sadness and mourning have tapered off, you simply accept the reality of the loss and start shopping for a new computer.
  

As you might have guessed by now, I have gone through these stages lately when the laptop expired. I had been using this computer for three years to write this blog, my thesis, my lectures, my essays, my emails and many other things when it presented me one afternoon with a blank screen.

I spent a week trying to put my limited knowledge of computer technology to the test, then wasted another pestering about the fact that I had to rely on somebody who knew more than I did – and who would bill me accordingly.

If I must rely on my computer, I should also be able to repair it myself, I thought. But then I would not have sufficient time to write this blog, my thesis, my lectures, my essays, my emails and many other things...

I’m still on stage two about this one.

The Beasts in the Museum (part 2): The hyenas

Hyenas are social carnivores that live in groups called clans. Within the hyena clan, there is a strict, linear dominance hierarchy: the animals who rank the highest are called the Art Critics and their rank allows them to take preferred resources (the best canapés and the spot closest to the artist) away from lower-ranking animals: the Art Students.

As lower ranking hyenas become more accustomed to the rules of the museum openings, they grow bolder. At first, they limit their activities to smaller galleries where only the occasional wine served in a disposable glass or cheap lager can be found. They also tend to stay pretty close to the door in case they might have to run. After a few months of such training, the hyena cubs leave the safety of the local galleries in favour of the larger institutions. Museums are large and full of danger for young cubs who don't know their way around; so cubs who have recently "graduated" from the local galleries usually stay tucked away in corners when the other members of their clan are nowhere to be found. The art students begin to observe and follow the art critics, freelance writers and other more experienced hyenas around to openings and press conferences and start to learn their way around the territory. Hyenas can live off such social gatherings quite comfortably for prolonged periods.

Most people think of hyenas as dirty, cowardly scavengers. Hyenas are indeed scavengers, but so are lions, commonly known as curators. Scavengers simply live off things that they did not make: art, institutions, food, etc. When lions scavenge, they usually appropriate goods from smaller predators, such as artists.

Lions are picky scavengers ― after all, they make a career out of it ― and when they abandon an exhibition (or a buffet), there is still plenty of food left for the hyenas. Hyenas are fast eaters, and they can go through two, even three openings in one day! Low-ranking hyenas seem to eat and drink the most, probably because they don't know when their next meal will be.

Hyenas make a noise that sounds like a maniacal laughter to signal submissiveness, usually when they’ve had a few too many glasses of free wine on an empty stomach and lack the vocabulary with which to express their perceptions of puzzling or bad artworks. Besides laughing, hyenas make many other vocalizations, the most famous being “This is so derivative”, a call that allows hyenas to signal that they belong to the clan.

The case of the renegade shoelace

Last Wednesday at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, a man tripped on his shoelace, tumbled down a flight stairs and landed unharmed on a set of 300-year old Qing Dynasty vases. Unfortunately, the 3 vases were not so lucky. In fact, they were smashed to smithereens… all because of an offending shoelace.

At least that is what the visitor bearing the aforementioned tie upon his shoe would have us believe. After regaining his wits and dusting the priceless particles of enamelled porcelain off his lapel, he looked up and said: “There it is! That’s the culprit!”, all the while pointing in the direction of the criminal cord. Although it might be interesting to consider the rise in criminal acts perpetrated by shoelaces, this costly little incident raises a few questions about responsibility.

Of course, the man who will now be fondly remembered as “The One Who Identified The Culprit” did not mean to take a flying leap. Does that free him of all responsibility towards the museum? It would appear to be the case… especially since the precious vases had been sitting on a windowsill at the bottom of the staircase for forty years. Should they have been protected by glass cases, perhaps “The One Who Identified The Culprit” would not have recovered so well from the incident, but the vases would probably be better off.

We tend to perceive museums as fortresses but, according to Charles Hill, a specialist in the recovery of stolen art, the truth is “most art collections are very badly protected. The reason is they’re on public display. You can’t turn the National Gallery in to Fort Knox, what’s the point?” Hill sums up the age old dilemma: can we be given access to art without posing a threat to its security? You never know when or where a renegade shoelace might strike...

Martine Rouleau

Like a whale in the Thames

On Friday, a bottle-nosed whale made its way up the River Thames, swimming through what could only have been experienced as a little canal compared to the deep sea waters this creature is used to. To the amazement of thousands of wide-eyed witnesses gathered along the banks, the great mammal entered central London. The apparently disoriented seven-tonne whale had ventured, against all odds, out of its habitat and out of its depth.

Because I was hiding under a pile of books at the British Library that day, the news got to me via an SMS message stating: “Apparently there is a whale in the Thames outside the Tate Modern.” I laughed thinking that it was putting on its own performance, as worthy of Londoners’ attention as any work of art preciously preserved within the walls of the gallery. After all, it certainly got more attention than the contemporary art on that day . With the outpours of sympathy that went to the poor creature, one could have thought that this whale had a promising future. Alas, it was to have a very short, yet memorable career as a performer.

A few hours after the first live whale to be seen in the Thames in living memory was spotted, an altogether different type of performer was attracting my attention. Marc Cousins, giving his weekly lecture at the Architectural Association stated with his usual bombast: “When you enter an institution you become an idiot.” Sitting in an institution at that very moment and having spent the best part of my day in another, I was compelled to consider the implications of that statement: by entering an institution, you give over all power to “higher authorities”, assuming that professors, librarians, curators, guides ought to know more than you. In order to be granted admission into libraries, universities, hospitals, museums, embassies and town halls – surely repositories of all the world’s wisdom – do we have to first admit in front of witnesses that we are ignorant?

Knowledge is a potent form of power and if we assume that institutions own it all, we choose to be forever out of our depth. We somehow put ourselves, against our better judgment, in the position to loose all the ease with which we usually evolve and become distressed, ungainly creatures. Like a whale in the Thames.

Martine Rouleau

The Beasts in the Museum (part 1)

It’s a Saturday afternoon and the Tate Modern is overtaken by tourists hiding from the glum weather, parents trying to forcefully enlighten their children to the many unclear virtues of contemporary masterpieces and art students commenting on how derivative everything is. The crowd is dense but seems to circulate to the rhythm of a predetermined cadence, somehow just avoiding queues and blockages. People just so in front of each work or forgo stopping altogether in favour of scanning the room, still walking, until they find a work they wish to study more attentively.

In the Jackson Pollock room, the circulation would be fluid too if it wasn’t for a man standing still a few feet away from a painting all the better to drink it in. This man is not especially large or doesn’t look particularly threatening, but the other visitors seem quite disturbed by his immobility in their path. They try to move straight ahead until they understand that he has no apparent intention to move, and then they sigh, move around him, make comments in various languages, some even dare to interpose themselves between him and the painting. It’s not polite to block people’s way. But our still contemplator doesn’t seem bothered by this unspoken rule of the museum. He is an obstacle, yet he hasn’t done anything explicitly inappropriate.

He is a pachyderm, the type of visitor who blocks others path through the museum and to the works by disregarding the conveyor belt rhythm that most others are moving to. The pachyderm is one of the many beasts to populate the museum’s fauna of which one, endowed with enough time and patience, could draw an unlikely bestiary. Although the bestiary might appear to many as a quaint medieval notion, but it was and still is a deductive process, a way to classify observed phenomena in order to make sense of them.

At the origin, these works in verse or prose described the appearance and habits of real and metaphorical animals in the form of an allegorical moralizing commentary. In the twentieth century onwards, this genre has been more or less relegated to children’s literature despite the fact that there is still a great need for bestiaries addressed to adults. After all, the intellectual sphere is not unlike a swamp populated with a variety of exotic beasts – “isms” and “post-isms” abound; ideologies or paradigms are multiplying beyond necessity. It is a legitimate approach that allows one to think a problem through by categorizing and formulating hypothesis.

This one will be used to make observations about the ways in which visitors can experience the museum without resorting the fictive oneness of the public often posited by mission statements issuing from museums often (mis) guided by ideals of public service and democratic access.

Martine Rouleau