On the Museum's Ruins

DOUGLAS CRIMP

The German word museal [museumlike]

has unpleasant overtones. It describes
objects to which the observer no longer
has a vital relationship and which are in
the process of dying. They owe their
preservation more to historical respect
than to the needs of the present. Museum
and mausoleum are connected by more
than phonetic association. Museums are
like the family sepulchres of works of art.
-Theodor W. Adorno, "Valery Proust
Museum"

In his review of the new installation of nineteenth-century art at the

Metropolitan Museum, Hilton Kramer attacks the inclusion of salon painting in
the Andre Meyer Galleries. Characterizing that art as silly, sentimental, and
impotent, Kramer goes on to assert that, had the reinstallation been done a
generation earlier, such pictures would have remained in the museum's store-
rooms, to which they had so justly been consigned:
42 OCTOBER

It is the destiny of corpses, after all, to remain buried, and salon

painting was found to be very dead indeed.
But nowadays there is no art so dead that an art historian cannot
be found to detect some simulacrum of life in its moldering remains. In
the last decade, there has, in fact, arisen in the scholarly world a
powerful sub-profession that specializes in these lugubrious disinter-
ments.1
Kramer's metaphor of death and decay in the museum recalls Adorno's essay,
in which the opposite but complementary experiences of Valery and Proust at the
Louvre are analyzed, except that Adorno insists upon this museal mortality as a
necessary effect of an institution caught in the contradictions of its culture and
therefore extending to every object contained there.2 Kramer, on the other hand,
retaining his faith in the eternal life of masterpieces, ascribes the conditions of life
and death not to the museum or the particular history of which it is an
instrument, but to artworks themselves, their autonomous quality threatened only
by the distortions that a particular misguided installation might impose. He
therefore wishes to explain "this curious turnabout that places a meretricious
little picture like Gerome's 'Pygmalion and Galatea' under the same roof with
masterpieces on the order of Goya's 'Pepito' and Manet's 'Woman with a Parrot.'
What kind of taste is it-or what standard of values-that can so easily accommo-
date such glaring opposites?"
The answer [Kramer thinks] is to be found in that much-discussed
phenomenon-the death of modernism. So long as the modernist
movement was understood to be thriving, there could be no question
about a revival of painters like Ger6me or Bouguereau. Modernism
exerted a moral as well as an esthetic authority that precluded such a
development. But the demise of modernism has left us with few, if any,
defenses against the incursions of debased taste. Under the new post-
modernist dispensation, anything goes....
It is as an expression of this post-modernist ethos ... that the new
installation of 19th century art at the Met needs ... to be understood.
What we are given in the beautiful Andre Meyer Galleries is the first
comprehensive account of the 19th century from a post-modernist
point of view in one of our major museums.3
We have here yet another example of Kramer's moralizing cultural conserva-
tism disguised as progressive modernism. But we also have a very interesting

1. Hilton Kramer, "Does Ger6me Belong with Goya and Monet?" New York Times, April 13,
1980, section 2, p. 35.
2. Theodor W. Adorno, "Valery Proust Museum," Prisms, trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber,
London, Neville Spearman, 1967, pp. 173-186.
3. Kramer, p. 35.
 On the Museum's Ruins 43

puzzle, whose pieces are not, in my estimation, fitted together right, perhaps
because a crucial one is missing. The pieces Kramer has assembled are the
museum, art history, modernism, and postmodernism. To which I would add
photography, and complete the puzzle to look, I would say, something like this:

For I want to claim that Rauschenberg's art, using the medium of photography
and at the threshold of postmodernism, enacts a deconstruction of the discourse of
the museum, of its pretensions to anything we could possibly call knowledge.

Robert Rauschenberg. Transom. 1963.

44 OCTOBER

One of the early instances of the term postmodernism as applied to the visual
arts occurs in Leo Steinberg's "Other Criteria," in the course of a discussion of
Rauschenberg's work and its transmutation of the picture surface into what
Steinberg calls a flatbed, referring, significantly, to a printing press.4 This flatbed
picture plane is an altogether new kind of picture surface, one that effects,
according to Steinberg, a radical shift from nature to culture. That is, it is a surface
which can receive a vast and heterogeneous array of cultural images and artifacts
that had not been compatible with the pictorial field of either premodernist or
modernist painting. (A modernist painting retains a "natural" orientation to the
spectator's vision, which the postmodernist picture abandons.) Although it is
doubtful that Steinberg had a very precise notion of the far-reaching implica-
tions of his term postmodernism, a term now used extremely promiscuously, his
reading of the revolution implicit in Rauschenberg's art can be both focused and
extended by taking this designation seriously.
Presumably unconsciously, Steinberg's essay suggests important parallels
with the "archeological" enterprise of Michel Foucault. Not only does the very
term postmodernism imply the foreclosure of what Foucault would call the
episteme, or archive, of modernism, but even more specifically, by insisting upon
the radically different kinds of picture surfaces upon which different kinds of data
can be accumulated and organized, Steinberg selects the very figure that Foucault
uses to represent the incompatibility of historical periods: the tables upon which
their knowledge is tabulated.
Foucault's project involves the replacement of those unities of humanist
historical discourse such as tradition, influence, development, evolution, source,
and origin with concepts like discontinuity, rupture, threshold, limit, series, and
transformation. Thus, in Foucault's terms, if the surface of a Rauschenberg
painting truly involves the kind of transformation that Steinberg claims it does,
then it cannot be said to evolve from, or in any way be continuous with a
modernist picture surface.5 And if Rauschenberg's flatbed pictures are experienced
as effecting such a rupture or discontinuity with the modernist past, as I believe
they do, and as I think do the works of many other artists of the present, then
perhaps we are indeed experiencing one of those cataclysmic ruptures in the
epistemological field that Foucault describes, a rupture as thorough as that which
separates the age of classicism (the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries) from the
age of modernism, the analysis of wealth from economics, natural history from
biology, general grammar from philology.6 But it is not, of course, only the
4. Leo Steinberg, "Other Criteria," Other Criteria, New York, Oxford University Press, 1972, pp.
55-91. This essay is based on a lecture presented at the Museum of Modern Art, New York, in March
1968.
5. See Rosalind Krauss's discussion of the radical difference between cubist collage and
Rauschenberg's "reinvented" collage in "Rauschenberg and the Materialized Image," Artforum,
XIII, 4 (December 1974), 36-43.
6. These are the subjects analyzed by Foucault in The Order of Things, New York, Pantheon,
1970.
On the Museum's Ruins 45

epistemological field that is unrecognizably transformed at certain moments in

history. New institutions of power, as well as new discourses, arise; indeed the two
are interdependent. Foucault has concentrated on modern institutions of confine-
ment: the asylum, the clinic, and the prison; for him, it is these institutions that
produce the respective discourses of madness, illness, and criminality-not the
other way around. There is another institution of confinement ripe for analysis in
Foucault's terms: the museum; and another discipline: art history. They are,
together with photography, or perhaps more precisely the repression and selective
use of photography, the preconditions of the discourse that we call modern art.
Foucault himself has hinted at the way to begin thinking about this analysis.

The beginning of modernism in painting is usually located in Manet's work

of the early sixties, in which painting's relationship to its art-historical precedents
was made shamelessly obvious. Titian's Venus of Urbino is meant to be as
recognizable a vehicle for the picture of a modern courtesan in Manet's Olympia
as is the unmodeled pink paint that composes her body. Just one hundred years
after Manet problematized painting's relationship to its sources,7 Rauschenberg
made a series of pictures using the images of Velazquez's Rokeby Venus and
Rubens's Venus at Her Toilet. But Rauschenberg's references to these old-master
paintings is effected entirely differently from Manet's; while Manet duplicates the
pose, composition, and certain details of the original in a painted transformation,
Rauschenberg simply silkscreens a photographic reproduction of the original
onto a surface that might also contain such images as trucks and helicopters. And
if trucks and helicopters cannot have found their way onto the surface of Olympia,
it is obviously not only because such products of the modern age had not yet been
invented. More crucially, it is because of the structural coherence that made an
image-bearing surface legible as a picture at the threshold of modernism, as

7. Of course, not all art historians would agree that Manet problematized the relationship of
painting to its sources. This is, however, the initial assumption of Michael Fried's "Manet's Sources:
Aspects of his Art, 1859-1865" (Artforum, VII, 7 [March 1969], 28-82), whose first sentence reads: "If a
single question is guiding for our understanding of Manet's art during the first half of the 1860s, it is
this: What are we to make of the numerous references in his paintings of those years to the work of the
great painters of the past?" (p. 28). In part, Fried's presupposition that Manet's references to earlier art
were different, in their "literalness and obviousness," from the ways in which Western painting had
previously used sources led Theodore Reff to attack Fried's essay, saying, for example, "When
Reynolds portrays his sitters in attitudes borrowed from famous pictures by Holbein, Michelangelo,
and Annibale Carracci, wittily playing on their relevance to his own subjects; when Ingres deliberately
refers in his religious compositions to those of Raphael, and in his portraits to familiar examples of
Greek sculpture or Roman painting, do they not reveal the same historical consciousness that informs
Manet's early work?" (Theodore Reff, "'Manet's Sources': A Critical Evaluation," Artforum, VIII, 1
[September 1969], 40). As a result of this denial of difference, Reff is able to continue applying to
modernism art-historical methodologies devised to explain past art, for example that which explains
the very particular relationship of Italian Renaissance art to the art of classical antiquity.
46 OCTOBER

Robert Rauschenberg. Crocus. 1962.

On the Museum's Ruins 47

opposed to the radically different pictorial logic that obtains at the beginning of
postmodernism. Just what it is that constitutes the particular logic of a Manet
painting is discussed in an essay by Foucault about Flaubert's Temptation of St.
Anthony:
Dejeuner sur l'Herbe and Olympia were perhaps the first "museum"
paintings, the first paintings in European art that were less a response
to the achievement of Giorgione, Raphael, and Velazquez than an
acknowledgement (supported by this singular and obvious connection,
using this legible reference to cloak its operation) of the new and
substantial relationship of painting to itself, as a manifestation of the
existence of museums and the particular reality and interdependence
that paintings acquire in museums. In the same period, The Tempta-
tion was the first literary work to comprehend the greenish institutions
where books are accumulated and where the slow and incontrovert-
ible vegetation of learning quietly proliferates. Flaubert is to the library
what Manet is to the museum. They both produced works in a self-
conscious relationship to earlier paintings or texts-or rather to the
aspect in painting or writing that remains indefinitely open. They erect
their art within the archive. They were not meant to foster the
lamentations-the lost youth, the absence of vigor, and the decline of
inventiveness-through which we reproach our Alexandrian age, but
to unearth an essential aspect of our culture: every painting now
belongs within the squared and massive surface of painting and all
literary works are confined to the indefinite murmur of writing.8
At a later point in this essay, Foucault says that "Saint Anthony seems to
summon Bouvard and Pecuchet, at least to the extent that the latter stands as its
grotesque shadow." If The Temptation points to the library as the generator of
modern literature, then Bouvard and Pecuchet fingers it as the dumping grounds
of an irredeemable classical culture. Bouvard and Pecuchet is a novel that
systematically parodies the inconsistencies, irrelevancies, the massive foolishness
of received ideas in the mid-nineteenth century. Indeed a "Dictionary of Received
Ideas" was to comprise part of a second volume of Flaubert's last, unfinished
novel.
Bouvard and Pecuchet is the narrative of two loony Parisian bachelors who,
at a chance meeting, discover between themselves a profound sympathy, and also
that they are both copy clerks. They share a distaste for city life and particularly
for their fate of sitting behind desks all day. When Bouvard inherits a small
fortune the two buy a farm in Normandy, to which they retire, expecting there to

8. Michel Foucault, "Fantasia of the Library," Language, Counter-Memory, Practice, trans.

Donald F. Bouchard and Sherry Simon, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1977, pp. 92-93.
48 OCTOBER

meet head on the reality that was denied them in the half-life of their Parisian
offices. They begin with the idea that they will farm their farm, at which they fail
miserably. From agriculture they move to a more specialized field: arboriculture.
Failing that they decide upon garden architecture. To prepare themselves for each
of their new professions, they consult various manuals and treatises, in which they
are extremely perplexed to find contradictions and misinformation of all kinds.
The advice they seek in them is either confusing or utterly inapplicable; theory
and practice never coincide. But undaunted by their successive failures, they move
on inexorably to the next activity, only to find that it too is incommensurate with
the texts which purport to represent it. They try chemistry, physiology, anatomy,
geology, archeology... the list goes on. When they finally succumb to the fact
that the knowledge they've relied upon is a mass of contradictions, utterly
haphazard, and quite disjunct from the reality they'd sought to confront, they
revert to their initial task of copying. Here is one of Flaubert's scenarios for the
end of the novel:
They copy papers haphazardly, everything they find, tobacco pouches,
old newspapers, posters, torn books, etc. (real items and their imita-
tions. Typical of each category).
Then, they feel the need for a taxonomy. They make tables,
antithetical oppositions such as "crines of the kings and crimes of the
people"-blessings of religion, crimes of religion. Beauties of history,
etc.; sometimes, however, they have real problems putting each thing in
its proper place and suffer great anxieties about it.
-Onward! Enough speculation! Keep on copying! The page
must be filled. Everything is equal, the good and the evil. The farcical
and the sublime-the beautiful and the ugly-the insignificant and the
typical, they all become an exaltation of the statistical. There are
nothing but facts-and phenomena.
Final bliss.9
In a recent essay about the novel, Eugenio Donato argues persuasively that
the emblem for the series of heterogeneous activities of Bouvard and Pecuchet
is not, as Foucault and others have claimed, the library-encyclopedia, but
rather the museum. This is not only because the museum is a privileged term in
the novel itself, but also because of the absolute heterogeneity it gathers together.
The museum contains everything the library contains and it contains the library
as well:

9. Quoted in Eugenio Donato, "The Museum'sFurnace:Notes Toward a ContextualReadingof

Bouvard and Pecuchet," Textual Strategies: Perspectives in Post-Structuralist Criticism, ed. Josui V.
Harari,Ithaca, Cornell UniversityPress, 1979,p. 214. I wish to thank Rosalind Kraussfor bringing
this essay to my attentionand more generallyfor our many discussionsof the issues raisedhere.
On the Museum's Ruins 49

If Bouvard and Pecuchet never assemble what can amount to a library,

they nevertheless manage to constitute for themselves a private mu-
seum. The museum, in fact, occupies a central position in the novel; it
is connected to the characters' interest in archeology, geology, and
history and it is thus through the Museum that questions of origin,
causality, representation, and symbolization are most clearly stated.
The Museum, as well as the questions it tries to answer, depends upon
an archeological epistemology. Its representational and historical
pretensions are based upon a number of metaphysical assumptions
about origins-archeology intends, after all, to be a science of the
arches. Archeological origins are important in two ways: each archeo-
logical artifact has to be an original artifact, and these original artifacts
must in turn explain the "meaning" of a subsequent larger history.
Thus, in Flaubert's caricatural example, the baptismal font that
Bouvard and Pecuchet discover has to be a Celtic sacrificial stone, and
Celtic culture has in turn to act as an original master pattern for
cultural history.10
Not only do Bouvard and Pecuchet derive all of Western culture from the few
stones that remain from the Celtic past, but the "meaning" of that culture as well.
Those menhirs lead them to construct the phallic wing of their museum:
In former times towers, pyramids, candles, milestones and even trees
had a phallic significance, and for Bouvard and Pecuchet everything
became phallic. They collected swing-poles of carriages, chair-legs,
cellar bolts, pharmacists' pestles. When people came to see them they
would ask: 'What do you think that looks like?' then confided the
mystery, and if there were objections, they shrugged their shoulders
pityingly.11
Even in this subcategory of phallic objects, Flaubert maintains the heterogeneity
of the museum's artifacts, a heterogeneity which defies the systematization and
homogenization that knowledge demands.
The set of objects the Museum displays is sustained only by the fiction
that they somehow constitute a coherent representational universe. The
fiction is that a repeated metonymic displacement of fragment for
totality, object to label, series of objects to series of labels, can still
produce a representation which is somehow adequate to a nonlinguis-

10. Ibid., p. 220. The apparent continuity between Foucault's and Donato's essays here is mislead
ing, inasmuch as Donato is explicitly engaged in an attack upon Foucault's archeological methodol-
ogy, claiming that it implicates Foucault in a return to a metaphysics of origins.
11. Gustave Flaubert, Bouvard and Pecuchet, trans. A. J. Krailsheimer, New York, Penguin Books,
1976, pp. 114-115.
50 OCTOBER

tic universe. Such a fiction is the result of an uncritical belief in the

notion that ordering and classifying, that is to say, the spatial juxtapo-
sition of fragments, can produce a representational understanding of
the world. Should the fiction disappear, there is nothing left of the
Museum but "bric-a-brac," a heap of meaningless and valueless
fragments of objects which are incapable of substituting themselves
either metonymically for the original objects or metaphorically for
their representations.12
This perception of the museum is what Flaubert figures through the comedy
of Bouvard and Pecuchet. Founded on the disciplines of archeology and natural
history, both inherited from the classical age, the museum was a discredited
institution from its very inception. And the history of museology is a history of all
the various attempts to deny the heterogeneity of the museum, to reduce it to a
homogeneous system or series. The faith in the possibility of ordering the
museum's "bric-a-brac," echoing that of Bouvard and Pecuchet themselves,
persists until today. Reinstallations like that of the Andre Meyer Galleries,
particularly numerous throughout the past decade, are testimonies to that faith.
What so alarms Hilton Kramer in this particular instance is that the criterion for
determining the order of aesthetic objects in the museum throughout the era of
modernism-the "self-evident" quality of masterpieces-has been broken, and as
a result "anything goes." Nothing could speak more eloquently of the fragility of
the museum's claims to represent anything coherent at all.

In the period following World War II, perhaps the greatest monument to the
museum's discourse is Andre Malraux's Museum Without Walls. If Bouvard and
Pecuchet is a parody of received ideas of the mid-nineteenth century, the Museum
Without Walls is the hyperbole of such ideas in the mid-twentieth. Specifically,
what Malraux unconsciously parodies is "art history as a humanistic discipline."
For Malraux finds in the notion of style the ultimate homogenizing principle,
indeed the essence of art, hypostatized, interestingly enough, through the medium
of photography. Any work of art that can be photographed can take its place in
Malraux's super-museum. But photography not only secures the admittance of
objects, fragments of objects, details, etc., to the museum, it is also the organizing
device: it reduces the now even vaster heterogeneity to a single perfect similitude.
Through photographic reproduction a cameo takes up residence on the page next
to a painted tondo and a sculpted relief; a detail of a Rubens in Antwerp is

12. Donato, p. 223. No distinctions are made in Donato's essay, nor in my own, between the art
museum and its prototype, the natural history museum. The reasons for removing art to its own
special museum and the particular history of that institution must be the subject of another essay.

RobertRauschenberg.Exile. 1962.
52 OCTOBER

compared to that of a Michelangelo in Rome.The art historian's slide lecture, the

art-history student's slide comparison exam belong in the museum without walls.
In a recent example provided by one of our most eminent art historians, the oil
sketch for a tiny detail of a cobblestone street in Paris-A Rainy Day, painted in
the 1870s by Gustave Caillebotte, occupies the left-hand screen while a painting by
Robert Ryman from the Winsor series occupies the right; and presto! they are
revealed to be one and the same.13 But what kind of knowledge is it that this
artistic essence, style, can provide? Here is Malraux:
Reproduction has disclosed the whole of world's sculpture. It has
multiplied accepted masterpieces, promoted other works to their due
rank and launched some minor styles-in some cases, one might say,
invented them. It is introducing the language of color into art history;
in our Museum without Walls picture, fresco, miniature and stained-
glass window seem of one and the same family. For all alike-
miniatures, frescoes, stained glass, tapestries, Scythian plaques, pic-
tures, Greek vase paintings, "details" and even statuary-have become
"colorplates." In the process they have lost their properties as objects;
but, by the same token, they have gained something: the utmost
significance as to style that they can possibly acquire. It is hard for us
clearly to realize the gulf between the performance of an Aeschylean
tragedy, with the instant Persian threat and Salamis looming across the
Bay, and the effect we get from reading it; yet, dimly albeit, we feel the
difference. All that remains of Aeschylus is his genius. It is the same
with figures that in reproduction lose both their original significance as
objects and their function (religious or other); we see them only as
works of art and they bring home to us only their makers' talent. We
might almost call them not "works" but "moments" of art. Yet diverse

13. This comparison was first presented by Robert Rosenblum in a symposium entitled "Modern
Art and the Modern City: From Caillebotte and the Impressionists to the Present Day," held in
conjunction with the Gustave Caillebotte exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum in March 1977.
Rosenblum published a version of his lecture, although only works by Caillebotte were illustrated.
The following excerpt will suffice to give an impression of the comparisons Rosenblum drew:
"Caillebotte's art seems equally in tune with some of the structural innovations of recent non-
figurative painting and sculpture. His embracing, in the 1870s, of the new experience of modern
Paris . . . involves fresh ways of seeing that are surprisingly close to our own decade. For one, he seems
to have polarized more than any of his Impressionist contemporaries the extremities of the random and
the ordered, usually juxtaposing these contrary modes in the same work. Parisians in city and country
come and go in open spaces, but within their leisurely movements are grids of arithmetic, technologi-
cal regularity. Crisscrossing or parallel patterns of steel girders move with an A-A-A-A beat along the
railing of a bridge. Checkerboards of square pavement stones map out the repetitive grid systems we see
in Warhol or early Stella, Ryman or Andre. Clean stripes, as in Daniel Buren[l], suddenly impose a
cheerful, primary esthetic order upon urban flux and scatter." ("Gustave Caillebotte: The 1970s and
the 1870s," Artforum, XV, 7 [March 1977], 52). When Rosenblum again presented the Ryman-
Caillebotte slide comparison in a symposium on modernism at Hunter College this past March, he
admitted that it was perhaps what Panofsky would have called a pseudomorphism.
On the Museum's Ruins 53

as they are, all these objects... speak for the same endeavor; it is as
though an unseen presence, the spirit of art, were urging all on the
same quest.... Thus it is that, thanks to the rather specious unity im-
posed by photographic reproduction on a multiplicity of objects,
ranging from the statue to the bas-relief, from bas-reliefs to seal-
impressions, and from these to the plaques of the nomads, a "Babylo-
nian style" seems to emerge as a real entity, not a mere classification-
as something resembling, rather, the life-story of a great creator.
Nothing conveys more vividly and compellingly the notion of a des-
tiny shaping human ends than do the great styles, whose evolutions
and transformations seem like long scars that Fate has left, in pass-
ing, on the face of the earth.14
All the works of what we call art, or at least all of them that can be submitted
to the process of photographic reproduction, can take their place in the great
super-oeuvre, Art as ontological essence, created not by men but by Man. This is
the comforting "knowledge" to which the Museum Without Walls gives testi-
mony. And concomitantly, it is the deception to which art history, a discipline
now thoroughly professionalized, is most deeply, if often unconsciously, com-
mitted.
But Malraux makes a fatal error near the end of his Museum: he admits
within its pages the very thing that had constituted its homogeneity; that thing is
of course photography. So long as photography was merely a vehicle by which art
objects entered the museum, a certain coherence obtained. But once photography
itself enters, an art object among others, heterogeneity is reestablished at the heart
of the museum; its pretentions to knowledge are doomed. Even photography
cannot hypostatize style from a photograph.

In Flaubert's "Dictionary of Received Ideas" the entry under "Photography"

reads, "Will make painting obsolete. (See DAGUERREOTYPE.)" And the entry
for "Daguerreotype" reads, in turn, "Will take the place of painting. (See
PHOTOGRAPHY.)""5 No one took seriously the possibility that photography might
usurp painting. Less than half a century atter photography's invention such a
notion was one of those received ideas to be parodied. In our century until recently
only Walter Benjamin gave credence to the notion, claiming that inevitably
photography must have a truly profound effect upon art, even to the extent that

14. Andre Malraux, Museum Without Walls, The Voices of Silence, Princeton, Princeton Univer-
sity Press, Bollingen Series XXIV, 1978, pp. 44, 46.
15. Flaubert, pp. 321, 300.
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56 OCTOBER

the art of painting might disappear, having lost its all-important aura through
mechanical reproduction.16 A denial of this power of photography to transform
art continued to energize modernist painting through the immediate postwar
period in America. But then in the work of Rauschenberg photography began to
conspire with painting in its own destruction.
While it was only with slight discomfort that Rauschenberg was called a
painter throughout the first decade of his career, when he systematically embraced
photographic images in the early sixties it became less and less possible to think of
his work as painting. It was instead a hybrid form of printing. Rauschenberg had
moved definitively from techniques of production (combines, assemblages) to
techniques of reproduction (silkscreens, transfer drawings). And it is that move
that requires us to think of Rauschenberg's art as postmodernist. Through
reproductive technology postmodernist art dispenses with the aura. The fantasy of
a creating subject gives way to the frank confiscation, quotation, excerptation,
accumulation, and repetition of already existing images.17 Notions of originality,
authenticity, and presence, essential to the ordered discourse of the museum, are
undermined. Rauschenberg steals the Rokeby Venus and screens her onto the
surface of Crocus, which also contains pictures of mosquitoes and a truck, as well
as a reduplicated Cupid with a mirror. She appears again, twice, in Transom, now
in the company of a helicopter and repeated images of water towers on Manhattan
rooftops. In Bicycle she reappears with the truck of Crocus and the helicopter of
Transom, but now also a sailboat, a cloud, an eagle. She reclines just above three
Cunningham dancers in Overcast III and atop a statue of George Washington and
a car key in Breakthrough. The absolute heterogeneity that is the purview of
both the museum and of photography is spread across the surface of every
Rauschenberg work. More importantly, it is spread from work to work.
Malraux was enraptured by the endless possibilities of his Museum, by the
proliferation of discourses it could set in motion, establishing ever-new series of
iconography and style simply by reshuffling the photographs. That proliferation
is enacted by Rauschenberg: Malraux's dream has become Rauschenberg's joke.18

16. See Walter Benjamin, "The Work ot Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," Illumina-
tions, trans. Harry Zohn, New York, Schocken Books, 1969, pp. 217-251.
17. For further discussion of these postmodernist techniques pervasive in recent art, see my essay
"Pictures," October, 8 (Spring 1979), 75-88; and Craig Owens, "The Allegorical Impulse: Toward a
Theory of Postmodernism," October, 12 (Spring 1980), 67-86. That we are now experiencing the
"decay of the aura" that Benjamin predicted can be understood not only in these positive terms of what
has replaced it, but also in the many desperate attempts to recuperate it by reviving the style and
rhetoric of expressionism. This tendency is, needless to say, particularly strong in the marketplace, but
also in museum exhibitions.
18. Just how little inclined to agree with my analysis of the museum Rauschenberg would be is
clear from the proclamation he composed for the Metropolitan Museum's Centennial Certificate. It
reads: "Treasury of the conscience of man. / Masterworks collected, protected / and celebrated
commonly. Timeless in / concept the museum amasses to / concertise a moment of pride / serving to
defend the dreams / and ideals apolitically of mankind / aware and responsive to the / changes, needs
and complexities / of current life while keeping / history and love alive." The poster was signed by the
Museum's officials.
On the Museum's Ruins 57

But of course not everyone gets the joke. And so we are still told that order can be
made of this stuff; the Rebus can be read. It reads, in fact, "That reproduces sundry
cases of childish and comic coincidences to be read by eyes opened finally to a
pattern of abstract problems."19 Bouvard and Pecuchet would surely be confused.

19. This reading of Rauschenberg's Rebus appears in Charles F. Stuckey, "Reading Rauschen-
berg," Art in America, 65, 2 (March-April 1977), 82. I reproduce it here as a fairly typical example of the
blind application of traditional art-historical methodologies to contemporary art.

Robert Rauschenberg. Breakthrough II. 1965.