PRINT Summer 2010

R. H. Quaytman

THE MUSEUM RECITED: The museum was a method—a method of memory. If I remember, the museum was a palace that looked out onto the garden of the nineteenth century, away from Europe’s tectonic plate. The glass in its windows was thick and the frames made of wood. Who described the museum this way? “. . . No people allowed. One plays here every day until the end of the world.” The museum was seen only by the guards—and by old women and children. They learned how to memorize and to understand how the sky is painted in Holland, France, Germany, Italy, Great Britain, and Spain. And wasn’t it true that Bouguereau was forgotten in spite of the museum’s leaden delays?

The guard in the Russian Museum is an old woman. She spins Duchamp’s bicycle wheel and laughs and laughs while, in the courtyard, preparators unload the Warhol Brillo boxes that the curator, an esteemed man, has forged. The Malevichs

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