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• 1 media/Screen Shot 2023-03-01 at 9.03.26 PM.png 2023-03-29T09:04:42-07:00 The Museum of Metamorphosis 117 Catalogue essay plain 2023-06-20T12:50:21-07:00

  When asked how he felt about the "consecration" of his works in museums during a 1959 interview, Marcel Duchamp professed indifference. "I am not concerned," he said, "because I do not consider myself any different from the others."¹ He then proceeded to insist on the mortality of art, whether in the museum or outside it, explaining,
  
  My real feeling is that a work of art is only a work of art for a very short period…After twenty years, an Impressionist painting has ceased to be an Impressionist painting, because the material, the color, the paint has darkened so much that it is no more what the man did when he painted it. That is one way of looking at it. So I applied this rule to all artworks, and after twenty years they are finished. Their life is over. They survive all right, because they are part of art history, but art history is not art. I don’t believe in preserving.²

  However the museum may appear to preserve, even immortalize, objects that we accept as works of art, Duchamp argues, it cannot preserve them as art. Rather, within a fraction of a human lifetime, physical change in the matter that makes up an artwork alters the work’s appearance to the point of making it so visually different from what the artist presented for judgment as a finished work that it is not that work anymore. And if it is not the artwork that it was, and if one can hardly see what other artwork it could be, then how can it be art—how can it be more than a relic? The natural metamorphoses of matter, then, only ever controlled for so long, limit the existence of an art object as art, inside or outside the museum, to a brief episode in the longer history of its material survival.
  
  Considering, however, Duchamp’s tendency to use the vocabulary of physical change to describe the effect on an artwork of its reception—in a 1964 interview, for instance, he held that “when a million people look at a painting, they change the thing by looking alone. Physically” and offered the example of the Mona Lisa, which, he claimed, had “been looked at so much that the smile has disappeared”³—behind the literal discoloration evoked by Duchamp lurks, perhaps, the specter of another kind of disfigurement. Promising artists the preservation of their works from oblivion, the museum in return assumes control over the terms in which these works enter art history, exercising an influence over the meaning they take on, and in that sense, perhaps, discoloring them. The “consecration” of his works in museums perhaps did not concern Duchamp because however worrisome a transformation their acceptance could entail, cognizant of the inevitabilities of matter, he had never expected to preserve his art from withering into art history in one way or another. 

  For all that he claimed not to “believe in preserving,” however, Duchamp devoted years of methodical labor to a retrospective artwork that not only evinces a concern for his art’s endurance, but stages a reflection on his posterity within a space that mimics the museum. Commonly called the Boîte-en-valise [Box in a Suitcase], the work consists of a box slightly more than a foot in length and width that unfolds to present an upright display of labeled and framed miniature reproductions of Duchamp’s prior artworks. Duchamp produced about three hundred copies of this “portable museum,” as he himself described the Boîte in a 1955 interview⁴; between 1935 and 1941, he oversaw the reproduction of the sixty-nine works that he had selected for inclusion, and in the decades that followed, he and his associates slowly assembled the boxes and issued them in seven editions, the last of which was only finished in 1971, three years after Duchamp’s death.⁵ At once an exhibition, a self-authored catalogue raisonné in three dimensions, and a small business venture, the Boîte has amused and perplexed generations of interpreters, dividing opinion with respect to whether, as an artwork, it transcends its complicity in projects of self-promotion and commercial gain. 
  
  
  Meanwhile, the forces of time—whose relentless physical and chemical advances within museum walls Duchamp did not take lightly, judging by his many returns to the subject in his interviews⁶—have not passed over this “portable museum.” Constructed in wood, leather, plastic, and oilcloth as well as paper—and thus far more vulnerable to physical deterioration than a traditional catalogue raisonné composed of printed text and photographs—the Boîte has proven not merely fragile, but self-destructive. Between inner and outer lids that scrape against one another as one opens the box, plastic items that warp and emit fumes damaging to paper as they degrade, and an oilcloth miniature typewriter cover that grows sticky and may stain the wooden walls, each Boîte contains a museum at war with itself—a war apparently unforeseen by its creator.⁷ Undermining both the work’s commercial value and its apparent valorization of the museum’s power to preserve, the Boîte’s self-destructiveness elicits responses from the real museums in which it has found itself that may illuminate the ways in which these institutions conceive of the art that they hope to preserve. While the museum’s treatment of any physically deteriorating work of art offers indications of the notion of the artwork’s identity that this modern institution implicitly assumes, the humor of the mise-en-abîme enacted by the presence of a miniature museum within a full-scale one illustrates with a particular salience the unique status, with its constraints and possibilities, that containment within this institution conveys on an object, however much the object resembles its container.
  
  
  In crafting his Boîte, Duchamp favored antiquated, time-consuming processes of reproduction over the latest technologies. He had the black-and-white photographs required for the Boîte reproduced in collotype despite having just used the newer and more efficient process of offset lithography for another project,⁸ and rather than using color photography, he enlisted the services of artisans working in pochoir studios to reproduce works in color.⁹ Because of the investment of time and skill on the part of the artisans that it required, the use of the pochoir process in the Boîte made the work too expensive to function as a mass-market consumer product, yet all the more alluring as a luxury good. Duchamp actively marketed it as such, advertising it with a subscription bulletin released in the fall before the first copies’ completion and mobilizing such familiar commercial clichés as a distinction between standard and deluxe versions.¹⁰ Having officially titled the box with an indecisive signature, Of or By Marcel Duchamp or Rrose Sélavy,¹¹ Duchamp originally referred to most of the boxes simply as Boîtes, reserving the term Boîte-en-valise for the twenty-four deluxe editions comprising the work’s first series, each of which he had planned to fit with a leather suitcase for storage and transportation.¹²

  These suitcases, Ecke Bonk notes, resemble the Louis Vuitton porte-monnaies carried by gamblers that Duchamp would have encountered on his 1924 trip to Monte Carlo, and thus further link the self-memorializing project of the Boîte to Duchamp’s ruminations on artistic posterity, which he consistently compared to a lottery or a game of chance.¹³ With its labels, frames, and architecture of vertical spaces of display, the Boîte unambiguously represents a museum, and thus presents its contents as representations of artworks—including its miniature replicas of readymades. The readymades, Elena Filipovic underscores, had scarcely appeared in public, much less received widespread recognition as art, at the time Duchamp released his first series of Boîtes;¹⁴ this gambler’s valise, then, contains Duchamp’s bet on his own posterity.¹⁵ Far from simply representing this wager, however, the Boîte contributed to the acculturation of Duchamp’s work that it anticipated. Martha Buskirk argues convincingly that the twenty-four deluxe Boîtes-en-valise, dedicated to major museums and collectors on both sides of the Atlantic, along with the many more Boîtes in circulation, disseminated Duchamp’s little-known body of work, presented self-assuredly (if playfully) as such, among a public with the means to ensure its preservation, and thereby laid the groundwork for his recognition and his reception into the museum in the second half of the century.¹⁶

  How should we square this persuasive account of the Boîte’s role in a strategy aimed at securing the institutional recognition and the museal preservation of Duchamp’s work with the skepticism that he repeatedly expressed towards the museum and its claim to preserve—with his conviction that inside or outside the museum, no matter how lucky in the lottery of posterity, “a picture dies after a few years like the man who painted it,”¹⁷ and the museum contains not works of art, but lifeless “art history”? To see the Boîte exclusively as a play in Duchamp’s long game, somewhere between a gamble and a chess move,¹⁸ would be to neglect the potential for critical insight inherent in this artwork’s figuring of the institutional legitimation that its artist seems, in spite of himself, to have aspired to. Situating the Boîte in the context of the mounting institutional acceptance of the Surrealist avant-garde in New York in the 1930s and 1940s, Benjamin Buchloh discerns in it a critical commentary on the fate of avant-garde art—albeit, in his view, a failed one.¹⁹ Duchamp, Buchloch suggests, not only anticipated the as-yet unrealized recognition of his readymades as art and the entry of his œuvre into the museum, but feared the petrifying, disfiguring effect of this acceptance on his work’s critical power. By meticulously mimicking the museum’s practices of collection and exhibition in the Boîte, complete with a system of labels and frames, Buchloh argues, Duchamp sought to forestall the institutional “reification”²⁰ and consequent commodification of his work by anticipating and satirizing it; he concludes, however, that the Boîte resembles the object of its criticism too closely to challenge it effectively.²¹ Insofar as the Boîte’s status as a lavish, portable object allows it to be marketed, sold, and possessed in actual commercial transactions that collapse the necessary separation between a successful parody of art’s commodification and its target, Buchloh correctly identifies its form as detracting from its critical potential. On the other hand, however, the particulars of the Boîte’s fragile materiality make the object inadvertently capable of a critique of the museum’s ideology that Buchloh could not have anticipated, speaking too soon when he listed “preservation from decay” as one of the functions of the museum “contained” in the Boîte.²²
  
  Whether one considers the Boîte’s representation of the museum uncritical or ineffectively critical of the museal systems of collection, spatial organization, and verbal description that secure the preservation of art objects as art history, if not as art, the work’s real interactions with these systems in its capacity as an art object within museum collections testifies against an assessment of the whole Boîte project as complacent. The Boîte’s pochoir-colored reproductions, neither original works nor products of completely mechanical reproductive processes, occupy an ambiguous status in between artworks and mere reproductions of artworks; when the Boîte enters the museum, however, both container and contents assume the same status as any artworks within the collection, complete with the same taboos. However much the Boîte’s ostentatious opening mechanism, pull-outs, and loose folders ready to be leafed through invite tactile investigation, for instance, exhibitions of the Boîte, including those which Duchamp helped to organize, have placed it behind glass. Its material and structural particularities thus enable the Boîte to call attention from within the museum to the aura²³ that acceptance by this institution bestows upon an object and to the ways in which the distance imposed by such an aura may limit an artwork’s ability to fully realize the kinds of encounters with beholders its form anticipates.
  
  
  The Boîte’s self-destructiveness even more saliently elucidates the conceptions of the artwork’s identity operative in the modern museum and, more specifically, in today’s museums, which increasingly enlist the help of digital technology to make their collections accessible to the public. A 2012 conservation report surveying the condition of nineteen Boîtes in eleven different institutions and private collections enumerates the features of the boxes that have proven most disruptive to their physical integrity²⁴—chief among them, the design of the suitcases housing the deluxe Boîtes-en-valises and of the boxes housing the standard Boîtes; the oilcloth of the miniature typewriter cover readymade …pliant…de voyage [Traveler’s Folding Item]; and the plastic on which Duchamp printed reproductions of his works on glass.²⁵ During the opening and closing of a standard Boîte, the inner tray of the box, fitting a bit too tightly, tends to rub against the wooden frame of the reproduction of the Large Glass, suffering tears to its paper lining and continual abrasion over time.²⁶ Each time one opens the Boîte, then, one accelerates its physical deterioration. Though the conservation report features a section proposing reparative and preventative treatments for the Boîte’s faulty architecture and for particularly troublesome reproductions, such interventions can only do so much. The object files on the two Boîtes belonging to the Smart Museum of Art at the University of Chicago that I had the opportunity to consult for this project document years of similar treatments implemented to address the abrasion of the Boîte’s outer architecture and tears to its binding, yet the museum’s most recent condition reports consider these interventions capable only of mitigating the erosion of the object’s structures of support that every handling of it entails.²⁷ Meanwhile, the reproductions of the Large Glass and 9 moules mâlic, made of the unstable plastic cellulose acetate, turn yellow, warp, and shrink so that they no longer fit into their wooden frames—a process that exposure to light (or to moisture, heat, or pollutants) accelerates.²⁸ Even carefully packed up and tucked away in storage, however, the Boîte is not safe from deterioration; as the plastic reproductions degrade, they emit an acetic acid (vinegar) vapor that damages paper, and that, in the “microclimate” of a closed Boîte, can harm the many paper-based reproductions that cannot be removed from its object’s “walls.”²⁹ A menace to itself whether closed or open, regularly handled or stashed away, the Boîte forces the museums where it stages its mise-en-abîme to consider the ends of their practices of conservation and the losses they are willing to accept in order to prolong an artwork’s life and protect its value.
  

  The discussion surrounding the conservation of the Boîte at the Smart Museum³⁰ provides a case study in the decision-making process that the artwork’s self-destructiveness catalyzes in the museums that possess it, which must weigh their interest in keeping the work accessible to the public against their interest in keeping it as intact as possible. The Smart Museum acquired its first Boîte, belonging to the 1963 series, in 1983, and it proved a popular choice of artwork for up-close viewing in the Museum’s study room, a space where researchers and classes can examine works from the collection that are not on view in the galleries. In the study room, no glass separates the Boîte from its beholder; though visitors may not touch the work themselves, they may observe its architecture in motion as an approved art handler opens the box, unfurls the pull-outs, and turns over the flap in the bottom tray to reveal the reproduction of the 1914 Chocolate Grinder painting on its inside.³¹ Nevertheless, when the Museum’s condition reports identified persistent abrasion and tearing to the Boîte’s container resulting from its opening and closing, the curators felt compelled to respond by limiting—though not eliminating—such study room displays of the miniature museum.³² They also considered arranging a more long-term display of the opened Boîte behind glass, and researched glass that would protect the sensitive object from too much exposure to light.³³ Such a display would have kept the object visible to the public while minimizing the number of times it would have had to be opened and closed, and would also have avoided the menace of the toxic “microclimate” tending to arise within the closed Boîte, but the allotment of space and resources that it would have demanded made it ultimately impracticable.³⁴ The curators’ concern for both conserving the physical integrity of the Boîte and keeping the opportunity to examine a Boîte up-close in the study room available to students and researchers informed the Museum’s decision in 2015 to accept the gift of a second Boîte, belonging to the 1966 series, intended to alleviate some of the pressure on their 1963 example.³⁵ Still, though its purchase made it possible for the Museum to spread out the toll incurred by each display of a Boîte across two objects rather than one, given that the 1966 example shares the self-destructive tendencies inherent to all series of the Boîte, it could not resolve the dilemma.

  For museums to ignore the detrimental effects of handling and displaying a work on that work’s physical integrity would seem a betrayal of the museum’s commitment to preserving artworks from the ravages of time—or, at any rate, to maintaining the art history entrusted to it in as legible a form as possible. On the other hand, if conserving an artwork requires severely reducing, if not giving up, our ability to see and touch it—its opportunity to encounter the public, without whose intervention, according to Duchamp, an artwork could not come into being as such³⁶—then what, or whom, are we conserving it for? One may appeal to a concern for future generations’ opportunities to experience the artwork, but if one feels that one cannot today justify the sacrifice of the work’s physical integrity for the sake of its availability for such encounters beyond a certain point, it remains unclear why one should expect this calculation to change at any given moment in the future so as to make a greater sacrifice of physical integrity permissible. An approach to the conservation of the Boîte that excessively privileges its physical integrity over its ability to exhibit Duchamp’s miniature œuvre and defers its encounters with a public into an indefinite future thus risks reducing it from an artwork to a prized object. 

  On the other hand, an assessment of the Boîte as inactive when closed and in storage neglects an element of the situation that Duchamp brought to light through Fountain, as Thierry de Duve understands it—that is, Fountain’s demonstration that the constitution of an artwork did not in fact require a gaze (regard), but only a “delay” (retard).³⁷ Almost no one saw the original urinal that Duchamp submitted to the Society of Independent Artists exhibition in New York in 1917 as Fountain; instead, Fountain circulated, was judged, and attained recognition as an artwork simply through the story of the gesture, along with the photograph of the original urinal by Alfred Stieglitz published in 1917 alongside Duchamp’s anonymous defense of his work in the short-lived periodical The Blind Man³⁸ —and, Elena Filipovic argues, through the miniature urinal in the Boîte-en-valise.³⁹ Thus, perhaps, after its initial unveiling to a public, a work like the Boîte requires no additional in-person encounters to sustain its life as an artwork: it suffices to know of the existence of the Boîtes, however physically inaccessible they may be as objects, in order to have an intellectual encounter with them that may serve as a basis for aesthetic judgment. Nevertheless, while the same conditions that enable readymades to be recognized as works of art may suffice to make the Boîte a work of art⁴⁰, the scrupulous attention to visual detail that Duchamp displayed in planning the reproduction of his works for the Boîte, along with his use of the artisanal pochoir process, which required meticulous care and produced miniature paintings splendidly rich and loyal to the originals in their coloring, makes one hesitate to assert with confidence that seeing a Boîte makes no difference to one’s understanding of the particular work of art that it is. Even considered in light of the new conditions for the creation of art exposed by Fountain, then, the self-destructive Boîte continues to put pressure on the museum and its claims, demonstrating that the preservation of art history—of a legible record of artistic activity—may enter into conflict with the preservation of art. 

  Nevertheless, the development of digital technology has offered museums something of a respite from the bind in which the Boîte places them. Today’s museums increasingly make their collections searchable online and many of their works viewable in the form of high-quality images and videos in these collections databases, often conceiving of the work of making art digitally accessible, and thus accessible from anywhere, as part of the museum’s duty to its public. André Malraux’s 1947 book Le musée imaginaire,⁴¹ written at about the same time that Duchamp was at work on his Boîte, describes an “imaginary museum” opened to art historians and to the world by the development of color photography—a virtual museum in which endlessly reproducible, universally accessible photographs circulate, permitting formal comparisons between artworks stretching across space and time. With the Internet, Rosalind Krauss observes, Malraux’s vision has come to full fruition.⁴² Images of innumerable artworks proliferate online, both high-quality photographs taken by museums to officially represent their objects in this virtual space and unofficial photographs taken by regular museum visitors. The camera’s gaze fragments a complex three-dimensional work like the Boîte into a series of discrete views—yet digital tools like the “zoom-in” function available on many museum websites simulate movement through real space ever more convincingly, sometimes enabling one to narrow in on the details of an elaborate work like the Boîte more closely than one could even in a study room. By making Duchamp’s box and its contents simultaneously visible to people all over the world, the “digitization” of the Boîte facilitates an experience of the object, originally an expensive collectible, which, as Malraux writes of the experience of art in the imaginary museum, no longer includes a “feeling of possession.”⁴³ 
  
  

  Insofar as it translates artworks in a variety of media, at a variety of scales, into two-dimensional color photographs of about the same size, the digitized museum collection—along with the larger imaginary museum formed by all pictures of art on the Internet in general—manifests the homogenizing character of the imaginary museum as Malraux imagined it.44 Still, the specificity of an artwork may assert itself, however subtly, under the homogenizing gaze of the camera. Physically unstable artworks like the Boîte, for instance, attract special attention from museums seeking to exhibit their works online through digitized collections. Particularly meticulous photographic documentation of an artwork in an unstable condition not only preserves a clear, visible record of its current state, before further change occurs, but also, when made available online, compensates for the relative inaccessibility of the physical art object in the cases of works like the Boîte, whose display exacerbates its deterioration. This very website project, for instance, is motivated partly by the Smart Museum’s interest in exploring the use of digital technology to facilitate encounters with the Boîte that do not worsen its condition. Thus, through its fragility or self-destructiveness, an artwork may catalyze projects of digital reproduction that multiply its image and diffuse it widely, assuring its preservation as a visible form if not as a material object—albeit, its preservation in the terms of the museum. Here too, however, the Boîte offers a rejoinder to the threat of “reification”: already a collection of reproductions, an exhibition offering a mediated experience of Duchamp’s œuvre, when reproduced online—especially as a collection of images—the Boîte enters a comic mise-en-abîme that highlights the subjugation of the artist-made museum to the order of the universal museum, both real and “imaginary.”

  The Boîte’s absorption as an art object into the system of the museum does not demonstrate the failure of a work with ambitions of subverting this order, nor does it mark the definitive triumph of a work crafted so carefully in the hopes of securing the recognition of its author’s artistic production in the museum’s terms that it lacks any potential to criticize these conditions of reception. Rather, when placed within the institution that it imitates—behind glass, in storage, and now preserved visually, at least, in the Internet’s immaterial museum—the Boîte becomes more capable, and all the more so for its self-destructiveness, of exposing the ways in which the museum and the camera grasp the artwork today. Insofar as it displays the metamorphosis of art into art history so strikingly, even as the mechanisms working this fatal transformation evolve, the Boîte resists complete ossification and continues to exude the “freshness”⁴⁵ of art.