The Museum of Death
Thoughts on the museum as an institution and culture as life.
Museums are often “dead” places. Where culture goes to be “preserved” from the effects and cannibalism of consumption culture. But without life, without existence and continuity in the present, what meaning does it really have? What use is culture to real, everyday humans if it is made intangible by glass cases, sterilized hallways and security in black suits? What does it mean for you and me if it does not exist in the here and now?
It makes sense I suppose that in a culture and society formed by colonial power, the museum becomes an extension of that ideology and power structure. “Culture” which makes no money if not monetized, becomes a thing of the past to be preserved and not lived. Culture as an element of the present, a continuous tradition and sign of our shared humanity, becomes worthless in the eyes of the heartless colonial machine.
Living tradition, living culture is important and a sign that we are not only observers of the past but active creators of it. By living and creating culture in the now, we give meaning and life to an otherwise dead thing.
In museums, culture is preserved because of historic importance or monetary value. As an oil painter, I know nothing will happen if I stroke the surface of a monet. The oils on my hands cannot damage something that is literally made from oil. Monet becomes the first and last person to feel his paintings. To experience the smooth stroke of a brush on the rough canvas. The way we are permitted to interact becomes limited to viewing behind a crystal clear pane of museum grade glass.
In some ways, I suppose this reverence and almost sacred attitude to great art behooves the artist. But I can’t help but wonder at the real reasons for the constant separation between us and significant history. Is it to preserve? If it is, is it to preserve a record of history and art or to preserve the wealth of the museum or some great patron? In the same way the land, that is living and cannot be owned by anyone, becomes claimed, owned, and killed, paintings, sculpture, the sacred traditions of near and distant peoples, becomes claimed by individual names on plaques, families of wealth, prestige, and cultural death.
In a small way, to participate in colonialism, in life for money, is to die. To be consumed by the self destroying machine created and run by us. Through colonialism our traditions are lost, our cultures are lost, and by extension, our humanity is lost. To create in a world that does not value creation and humanity is the greatest act of resistance. To carry culture forward in a society that seeks to only destroy itself is the greatest act of resistance. To seek not money and preservation but life and the living ephemeral is the greatest act of joy and resistance.