You Must Be This Tall to Enter This Exhibition

Over the weekend I read the New York Times letters to the editor responding to Michael Kimmelman's critique of the Museum of Modern Art's expansion plans (by renown architectural firm Diller Scofidio + Renfro). Kimmelman's piece is a blistering op-ed that takes on New York's architectural legacy at large, which is perhaps best summarized in my opinion by Kimmelman's phrase "the increasing monotony of glass towers." 

In general, however, the letters convinced me that razing the American Folk Art Museum building is only one of the issues that deserve thorough consideration here. (Indeed, as one letter writer noted, "Where was the outcry when the Folk Art Museum decided to tear down its lovely old townhouses and put up a building that was cold and uninviting and never had the charm or gallery space of the lovely old building?")

First among the other issues, for me, is the contemporary conception of architecture's purpose in general. In defending their plans to the Los Angeles Times, Elizabeth Diller noted, "We don’t monumentalize our projects. We don’t imagine that we are building for history. We imagine that we’re building for the occupants" [emphasis mine]. 

Now, you can count me among the New Yorkers who thoroughly loathe most of the buildings that have been designed and built during the past 20 years that I've lived here. And while hating New York buildings is perhaps second only to hating New York basketball teams in terms of hyperbolic (if justified) passions, it's a constant source of embarrassment to me when friends visiting from other cities see the phalanx of truly butt-ugly monstrosities being erected on nearly every square inch of Manhattan. To paraphrase the maxim about a boat owner's two happiest moments, the day they tear down most of those buildings will bring as much, if not more, civic celebration as the day they opened them.

But Diller's statement made me wonder: if not museums, what on earth would be built for history by today's architects? Have we culturally been so entirely absorbed by consumerism that even "the mother of all art" is now viewed as entirely disposable?

Second among the other issues, though, is the vision that MoMA explains is behind the expansion. Kimmelman dismissed it as "all the same flimflam: flexible spaces to accommodate to-be-named programming, the logic of real estate developers hiding behind the magical thinking of those who claim cultural foresight. It almost never works."

MoMA Director, Glenn D. Lowry's vision statement does indeed seem somewhat ambiguous and all-things-for-all-people, which I'm sure is partly necessary to be flexible enough to respond to art that even artists don't yet know they're going to make, but it includes the following, somewhat disheartening statement:

Enlivening and participatory, the new MoMA will be a place for people of all ages and experiences to share their thoughts and questions with each other. It is a place for conversation, and a place for many stories.

[To be fair, they've also phrased this goal as designed to "provide an even more enlivening and participatory experience, a space for both contemplation and conversation." [emphasis mine]

The notion of the museum as a "place for conversation," though, raises memories of two of my most recent visits to MoMA. The first was, admittedly, a party, but the painful joke of the experience was that MoMA had invited so many people to an opening reception for Barbara London's last exhibition at the museum, "Soundings: A Contemporary Score," that you could barely hear any of the works in the show. Word had it that Barbara was forced to plead with the museum to limit the number of visitors trying to enter the galleries. Even outside the actual exhibition, the roar from the over-packed lobby and spaces leading up to the show was insane.

The other experience, though, remains the one that defines what MoMA has become in my mind. The friend I went to see the Isa Genzken show with also wanted to pop into the Magritte exhibition. Not since I last went to Six Flags have I enjoyed the type of "enlivening and participatory" conversation that the half hour of trudging back and forth through those retractable stanchions afforded me. Indeed, the lines at MoMA in general are so intense, even should you temporarily find your view of an actual artwork uninterrupted, you'll hardly be in a contemplative mood. (God help you if you're foolish enough to check your coat.)

Now I can imagine that expanding the gallery spaces and redesigning how visitors move through the space could help MoMA live up to their goal of becoming "a place where you can enjoy art at your own pace," but I honestly cannot remember the last time I had a quiet, unjostled moment with any work of art in MoMA, and with their plans to open up more of the museum to lively and participatory conversation, I'm not sure I ever will again.

"So what would you propose instead?" you ask. "Raising the entrance fee even more?"

Nah, I doubt that would work. The families who flock into the museum can do the math and realize even if you doubled the entrance fee, it's still cheaper than taking the kids to a Broadway show, and it eats up nearly as much time, so I doubt raising the fee would do much more than keep out even more struggling artists who need to visit there.

"Discourage the general public from engaging with contemporary art?"

Well, to some degree, yes.  In defense of that seemingly snobbish position, I enter the following photo by gallerist Stephanie Theodore as evidence: https://twitter.com/theodoreart/status/427492116319571968

But I'm not actually interested in discouraging anyone who's truly interested in art, as much as I am in having museums send crystal clear signals that if you're in the galleries you simply must behave in a manner that permits other visitors to get their money's worth from their visit. The more they encourage undefined "participation" in other parts of the museum, though, the more they need to expect visitors will behave as they would in any other theme park. 

What that means is the museums must signal that visitors are expected to shut up or talk very quietly, watch out for others around them, actually look at the art or get the hell of out of the way of those who wish to, and seriously consider how intensely lame it is that anyone would take their photo in front of a work of art. Shooting the artwork itself is one thing, but using it as a backdrop for your selfie makes you an asshat. 

In short, it's not enough for MoMA to dream up new ways to engage an increasingly low-attention-spanned audience. If any part of their new vision takes seriously their responsibility to the artists whose work they acquire and/or exhibit and those sincerely interested in that work, they need to define more clearly how they intend to ensure it becomes a place where "you can enjoy art at your own pace." So far, the vision is lacking such definition, in my opinion.