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Museum in ¿Motion?: Conference Procedings MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? CONFERENCE PROCEEDINGS [12 — 13 November 2004] Museum Het Domein, Sittard / Jan van Eyck Academie, Maastricht / Department of Architecture & Urban Planning, Ghent University MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 1] Museum in ¿Motion?: Acknowledgements ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The following publication contains the proceedings of the conference Museum in ¿Motion? that took place on 12 & 13 November 2004 at Museum Het Domein in Sittard and at the Jan van Eyck Academie in Maastricht, the Netherlands. The event was jointly organised by the Jan van Eyck Academie Maastricht, Museum Het Domein, and the Department of Architecture & Urban Planning of the Ghent University (UGent). It benefited from generous funding by the Mondriaan Foundation and the Province of Limburg. The conference comprised two meeting formats. On the first day, a symposium with invited speakers was held at Museum Het Domein in Sittard. Speakers were Christian Kravagna, Johanne Lamoureux, Camiel Van Winkel, Alan Wallach and John Welchman. On the second day, a three-session seminar was held at the Jan Van Eyck Academie in Maastricht. The first two sessions saw the results of an international call for papers. Papers were presented by Lieven De Boeck & Teresa Stoppani, Christoph Grafe, Andrea Phillips, Joel Sanders, Wendy Meryem Kural Shaw, and Naomi Stead. Speakers at the Friday symposium acted as referees; Jeroen Boomgaard and Bart Verschaffel chaired the sessions; Dirk Pültau acted as additional referee. The third session presented the results of a closed architecture competition between three teams of artists and architects: Office, Dries Van de Velde & Richard Venlet, One Architecture & Berend Strik and Fün Design Consultancy, MAMA Showroom & Alicia Framis. The jury consisted of Wiel Arets, Judith Barry, Jouke Kleerebezem, Roemer van Toorn and Tristan Weddigen. During the first day of the conference, the interactive web-project The Museum You Want by Judith Barry could be consulted on a computer in one of the exhibition spaces of Museum Het Domein. This publication gathers the contributions made at the Museum in ¿Motion? conference. We opted to digitally support the conference acts, as this allowed us to put together, within a relatively short period of time, a low-budget publication – both in terms of MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 2] Museum in ¿Motion?: Acknowledgements production and distribution. The digital interface, however, is shell to a fully-fledged book. You can either navigate through the papers on a digital level or choose to create a material copy by printing them. I am immensely grateful to all the people who made the conference possible and assisted me in setting up the whole enterprise. Main thanks go to Stijn Huijts, director of Museum Het Domein, and Koen Brams, director of the Jan van Eyck Academie, for having invited me to organize the conference. They also kindly offered to host the event. Special thanks go to the Mondriaan Foundation and the Provincie Limburg for their generous support of both the conference and the resulting publication. I would like to thank all those who helped to put this publication together, especially all the contributors and the graphic designers Vinca Kruk and Adriaan Mellegers. They not only made the conference into a challenging and pleasurable event, but responded afterwards so positively to the idea of the proceedings. Special thanks go to Petra Van der Jeught, who was a true pleasure to work with during the whole project. Finally I would like to thank the following institutions and individuals for their indispensable help and advice: Department of Architecture & Urban Planning Ghent University, René Belleflamme, Madeleine Bisscheroux, Jean-Pierre Le Blanc, Maaike Frencken, Jo Frenken, Huub Gelissen, Jo Hardy, Claudine Hellweg, Winnie Koekelbergh, Geert Roels, Brigitte Schollaert, Kim Thehu, Bart Verschaffel. Wouter Davidts, Ghent, November 2005 MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 3] Museum in ¿Motion?: Table of contents TABLE OF CONTENTS 2 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 6 INTRODUCTION: Wouter DAVIDTS: Museum in ¿Motion? 16 33 45 63 78 79 90 100 110 114 115 127 141 152 MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? PART 1 Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice John C. WELCHMAN: Achitecture :: Sculpture Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer is Never at Home: Museum Culture After the End of Spectacle PART 2 SESSION 1: The Museum: Dreams of a Mobile Architecture Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble. Contemporary Art and the Pedestrian Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the NeoAvant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparency and Contemporary Museum Building Jeroen BOOMGAARD: Non-Space PART 3 SESSION 2: Museum and Typology Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe Lieven DE BOECK & Teresa STOPPANI: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire Wendy MERYEM KURAL SHAW: Behind the museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present Bart VERSCHAFFEL: Museum and Typology [PAGE 4] Museum in ¿Motion?: Table of contents 156 159 165 181 197 PART 4 SESSION 3: Design Competition: Our Museum Competition entries: OFFICE (Kersten GEERS & David VAN SEVEREN), Dries VAN DE VELDE & Richard VENLET FÜN DESIGN CONSULTANCY (Johan DE WACHTER, Cesar GARCIA & Paz MARTIN), MAMA Showroom & Alicia FRAMIS ONE ARCHITECTURE (Matthijs BOUW & Donald VAN DANSIK) & Berend STRIK Tristan WEDDIGEN: Just do it? Powergames and Museums 207 INSERT(S) Judith BARRY: What Could Make Today’s Museums so Different, so Appealing? Conference publicity 209 217 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS COLOPHON 202 218 1850 3480 5110 6740 8370 MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? WHITE WHITE WHITE WHITE WHITE WHITE SPACE SPACE SPACE SPACE SPACE SPACE — — — — — — BLACK TEAL BLUE PURPLE RED YELLOW [PAGE 5] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? Introduction: Museum in ¿Motion? Wouter Da idts MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 6] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? Some days prior to the conference Museum in ¿Motion? the Spanish artist Santiago Sierra caused some turmoil at the Museum Dhondt Dhaenens in Deurle, a local museum at the outskirts of Ghent, Belgium. In line with his reputation of being one of the most controversial contemporary artists, he made a both simple and radical gesture. He took all the artworks from the museum space and then removed all the glass from exterior doors and windows. The museum was stripped to the bone, reduced to a bare structure, where wind and rain had free reign. Sierra’s intervention fits within a fairly recent tradition of symbolic and ever more violent gestures on architecture. Since architecture gives form and identity to institutions, it is still by many regarded as the most exquisite target to attack, and thus critically evaluate those institutions, and the museum in particular.1 Since it was the ambition of the conference Museum in ¿Motion? to reassess the critical correlation between contemporary art and the museum, Santiago Sierra’s work obviously raised many vital questions. Is this the kind of work that we can qualify as critical, in the sense that it develops critical insights in the present-day meaning and position of such an institution as the museum of contemporary art, or of art institutions in general? The artistic operation of dismantling a museum (building) may have been experienced as radical, straightforward and critical at the end of the 1960s, but is it still today? Is architecture still the most appropriate target to critically re-evaluate the museum? Why do critics, curators as well as artists still pretend or want us to believe that these kind of crude actions – that in the end merely dislodge the institution – formulate a firm critique on it?2 They may cause much turmoil and commotion – especially in the case of Sierra within the local art community – but do they truly set our conception of the museum ‘in motion’? The conference Museum in ¿Motion? intended to trace the history of the critical correlation between contemporary art and the museum, to chart the various institutional responses, and to frame them within the broader context of sociopolitical changes. The title literally refers to one of the most important publications on the museum discussion in the 1970s: Museum in ¿Motion? The modern art museum at issue / Museum in ¿Beweging? Het museum oor moderne kunst ter diskussie, published in 1979.3 The book was published on the occasion of the departure of director Jean Leering from the Van Abbemuseum in Eindhoven. Leering’s direction of the museum between 1964 and 1973 was considered so influential that it merited review and contextualisation. The editors started from the awareness that –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 7] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? since the 1960s, art had drastically altered its nature and strategies: it had become ever more agile, critical towards the institutional framework of the museum, and eager to operate on more specific sites. And this development, as they state in the introduction, caused museums of contemporary art to face ‘major problems’. In the introduction to the second part of the Museum in ¿Motion? book – a picture story of the drastic changes in contemporary art – Frans Haks lists some of the most burning issues. According to Haks, museums have the responsibility to stimulate, as quickly as possible, an awareness and understanding of developments in contemporary art; yet, they are confronted with spatial, institutional, and socio-political problems and limitations. As museums try to keep up pace with contemporary art, they face the following questions: ‘Can we (…) defend a policy of bringing activists into the museum, when it is precisely institutions such as the museum that they reject? How can a museum accommodate artists who want to operate outside the building? Would both the repeated construction and demolition of complex structures prove too expensive?’ In preparation of the book, a list of similar inquiries was sent to a wide range of museum officials, artists and critics, asking them to send back their written comments. This resulted in an impressive array of contributions by some of the most crucial voices of the post-war museum discussion, such as Daniel Buren, Hans Haacke, Pontus Hulten, Willem Sandberg and Harald Szeemann. The collection of documents renders a lively insight in the animated and vibrant character of the museum discussion in the 1970s, graphically represented by the double question mark in the title. Although it may be regarded as a mere typographical joke, it represents the then ‘disputable’ state of the museum issue. But do we, exactly twenty-five years on, still need these question marks? If we take a closer look at the questions that were sent around in preparation of the Museum in ¿Motion? book to the various art personalities, we immediately face the fact that many of them, if not all, no longer seem to be a true issue of discussion. Is there anyone who would argue that museums can only deal with visual arts or rather should connect with theatre, music, literature, architecture and dance as well? Or that the museum should engage merely with ‘high art’ or with any cultural phenomenon? Let alone that someone would contest the idea that a museum should organize temporary exhibitions. Just imagine that we would question the idea that the museum’s activities are limited to its own building. And, –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 8] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? finally, whoever will contest the idea that a museum commissions artworks? Thus we must admit that the situation has drastically changed since the publication of Museum in ¿Motion? twenty-five years ago. The critical questions that the editors posed and the answers that the museum officials, artists, critics, theoreticians and academics tried to formulate, seem to have been completely superseded by the contemporary state and conditions of the art world. How many museums still feel impotent or helpless towards art that critiques the institution, leaves, or even destroys, the building, or asks for help for large-scale and complicated projects? It seems all the more that the former rebels have been domesticated, that they are embraced with the greatest cordiality, almost cuddled to death. The statement of William Rubin in the 1974 Artforum interview with Lawrence Alloway and John Coplans – reprinted in the Museum in ¿Motion? book – that artist should be ‘more concerned about being embraced than being rejected by the museum’, nowadays almost sounds tragic and cynical.4 How many museums still rack their brains over so-called transgressive projects? Have they simply not become ‘part of the programme’? The main ambition of the Museum in ¿Motion? conference was to identify the kind of questions that need to be asked today. We started from the conviction that to discuss the critical relationship between contemporary art and the museum and to gain insight in and knowledge about the current situation and problematics of the museum, a precise historical perspective is mandatory. Therefore we pinned down the 1979 Museum in ¿Motion? book as a precise and distinct reference point, since it clearly marks a moment within the historical discussion on contemporary art and the museum. It offered an excellent framework to investigate the contemporary issues, concerns and problems. Furthermore it allowed us to investigate the present-day relevance of the questions that were posed in the middle and at the end of the 1970s. Are museums still confronted with the same problems? Is the critical relationship between art and the museum still a point of discussion? Or, do the massive socio-political changes in our society confront the museum with a much bigger challenge? How are we to define the former and current role of the museum of contemporary art, being one of the pre-eminent public institutions? When precisely did the dream of the mobile or living museum originate? Which forms and strategies of mobility have so far been developed? Where does the real ‘motion’ stop and rhetoric come in? –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 9] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? The Museum in ¿Motion? conference thus did not focus on the future of the museum. It focused on its present and recent history. We didn’t ask our speakers to formulate their predictions nor to define the prospects of the museum. They were invited to discuss, based first and foremost on their critical and scholarly work, the historical shifts in the issues and themes that directed and still direct the museum discussion, such as the institutional mise-en-scène (Wallach), the public appeal (Van Winkel), architectural investment (Welchman), institutional critique (Kravagna) and artistic mobility (Lamoureux). Together with Carol Duncan, Alan Wallach wrote one of the most influential essays in early critical museum theory. Their ‘Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’, written within the same timeframe as the Museum in ¿Motion? book, offered a brilliant examination of the architectural iconography and curatorial mise-en-scène of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. On our invitation, Alan Wallach revisited and updated the 1978 article, in the light of, at the time of the conference forthcoming, re-opening of the MoMA. In his book Moderne Leegte Camiel Van Winkel analyzed how artists such as Dan Graham and Bruce Nauman in the 1960s tried to grant their work the necessary social dimension by giving it an explicit ‘public’ destination and thus directing it towards a situation of ‘publicness’. Nowadays, many consider ‘the public’ an outdated category, as it is said not to account for ‘the multiplicity and diversity’ of contemporary audiences. While one is obliged to speak about many ‘publics’, countless artworks are believed to force us into an aesthetic relationship, and ‘speak to us’ personally. We called upon Van Winkel to address the fundamental changes in the appeal to the public – on both an artistic and institutional level – that have occurred since the 1960s. Much of the contemporary debate on museums has been dominated by architecture. Probably the most spectacular and most visible changes in the last two decades in the museum world have occurred on the architectural front. All over the world, museums, preferably designed by one of the contemporary ‘star’ or ‘signature’ architects, pop up at incredibly high speed. These often gaudy museum buildings exemplify the fact that contemporary architects have reclaimed and recruited almost every new object type and spatial relation that post-war avant-garde artists have explored. On our request, John C. Welchman, distinguished scholar of postwar and contemporary art, closely studied the work of Frank Gehry, undeniably one –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 10] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? of the major ‘museum architects’ and analysed how it renders such critical sculptural strategies as displacing, scattering, minimizing or mirroring into some of the most successful architectural ‘design strategies’ of today. The book The Museum as Arena, edited by Christian Kravagna, reveals that the term institutional critique has come to cover a vast array of positions and attitudes. From the early critical deconstruction of the artistic institution by such artists as Marcel Broodthaers, Daniel Buren, Michael Asher or Hans Haacke, institutional critique has developed into a broad critical assess of socio-political and economic institutions and phenomena, by such artists as Martha Rosler, Andrea Fraser or Fred Wilson. For many contemporary critical art practices however, the art museum no longer functions as a subject, let alone as a point of reference. We asked Kravagna to reflect on what the implication is for the art museum, now that many artists seem to have shifted their interests to other museums and cultural institutions. Since the 1960s and the advent of site-specificity, contemporary art operates on continuously shifting sites – physical, institutional, geographical as well as political – engendered by the ever increasing mobility of the artist. In her book L’art insituable, Johanne Lamoureux elucidates the different positions and attitudes within the broad range of artistic practices that engage with specific sites. Within the ever-expanding network of exhibitions, events and institutions the model of the ‘itinerant artist’ however seems to have lost its initial criticality. We invited her to reflect on the total mobilization of artistic (and curatorial) practices. On the second day, the first two sessions explored the many ways in which the museum advocates architecture as the medium to overcome its identity crisis. A quick glance at the metaphors used by museums to question their status reveals an architectural bias, and as a consequence, the spatial nature of the crisis: if the museum of contemporary art wants to transform itself from a static repository into a dynamic workshop, it has to tear down its walls, open up its space, leave the premises, push back its frontiers, etc. Based on two separate call for papers, the first session reflected on the notion of mobility (Phillips, Stead and Sanders), while the second studied the contemporary relevance and significance of the notion of typology (Grafe, Shaw and Stoppani & De Boeck). The third session not only ended the conference, but functioned as a revelatory supplement. We set up a ‘fictitious’ architecture competition and invited three teams of artists and architects to design ‘their museum’. By staging the presentation and the jury discussion as a ‘live event’, –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 11] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? we wished to develop an alternative format to discuss the role and significance of architecture within the museum. The fundamental premise of the enterprise was that an architectural project is an inherently discursive product, and as such, a suitable object to engender a theoretical discussion that finds its place within an academic conference. It is hard to measure the success and accomplishments of a conference. It is a particular format and event with its own rules and customs. But if there was at least one convention we tried to contradict, it was the bromide that at conferences the most interesting discussions are held during the coffee break.5 We shared the conviction that this has nothing to do with the genre of the conference, but first and foremost with the way they are organized. I am very grateful for all the energy and commitment that all contributors demonstrated in preparation of and during the conference, and afterwards by submitting their paper. I sincerely hope that the present collection of essays proves that the discussion on the relationship between contemporary art and the museum is still as vibrant and animated as it was in the 1970s. We at least kept the double question mark in the title. It is of course an illusion to assume that the conference would tackle the full scope of the contemporary museum problematic. Nevertheless, despite the variety of the delivered papers, we must admit that many questions remain unanswered. But perhaps this is due to the subject of the conference itself. If this collection of essays points something out, it is the elusiveness of the concept museum. It’s an institution whose problems are both hard to grasp and easy to circumvent. But that aspect alone makes it a worthy subject that we must return to again and again, with all possible fervour. It was a great pleasure to note that so many people made the effort to travel to Sittard and Maastricht, both charming cities in the Southern periphery of the Netherlands. At first sight they seem fairly unlikely places to organize such an ambitious academic conference. But, in the end, we experienced that both far-off locations perfectly befitted a conference on the museum – the secluded and remote site par excellence6. If we succeed in challenging the common assumption that you need a hotspot to produce vivid and vibrant discussions, I think we can consider the Museum in ¿Motion? conference a success *** –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 12] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? Notes work of Sierra, the local authorities had cut 1. This tradition starts with Yves Le Klein’s the budget of the museum by 50%. Le Vide (1958), Armand’s Le Plein (1960), Daniel Buren’s sealing of the entrance 3. Carel Blotkamp (ed.), Museum in ¿Motion? The modern art museum at issue of the Galleria Apollinaire (1968), / Museum in ¿Beweging? Het museum voor Robert Barry’s During the exhibition moderne kunst ter diskussie, ‘s-Gravenhage, the gallery will be closed (1969), Michael Govt. Pub. Office, 1979. In 2003, a one- Asher’s removal of the windows of the day symposium was organized at the arts Clocktower New York (1976), Gordon centre De Balie in Amsterdam under the Matta-Clark’s Window Blow-Out in the same title. In 2003, the directors of the New York Institute for Architecture and most important museums of modern and Urban Studies (1976), Chris Burden’s contemporary art were about to leave: Exposing the Foundations of the Museum Rudi Fuchs from the Stedelijk Museum in in the Temporary Contemporary in Los Amsterdam, Jan Debbaut from the Van Angeles (1986) to more recent intrusions Abbe museum in Eindhoven and, Chris such as Ingmar & Dragset’s SPACED Dercon from the Boijmans Van Beuningen OUT/POWERLESS STRUCTURES, in Rotterdam. This collective exodus was FIG. 211 in the Portikus in Frankfurt experienced as a ‘unique’ situation, of both (2003) to Kendell Geers’ blowing up of a urgent and promising nature. The ‘museum temporary wall in the Antwerp Museum in motion’ symposium in De Balie in May of Contemporary Art (The De il never 2003 was already the third in a series of rests … [6 June 2004]). For a brilliant ‘future debates’ about the Amsterdam discussion of the different gestures that use Stedelijk Museum. (Reports on these two architecture to attack the conditioning of editions were printed in Stedelijk Museum the institutional space, see the last chapter Bulletin, 14, 6 (2002); Stedelijk Museum ‘The gallery as a gesture’ that was added Bulletin, 16, 1 (2003).) For the event, to the 1999 edition of Brian O’Doherty’s several celebrities of the contemporary Inside the White Cube. The Ideology of art world – from Boris Groys, Thierry the Gallery Space, Berkeley: University of De Duve to curators as Charles Esche, California Press. Nicholas Schaffhausen, Kathy Halbreich 2. Probably the most ironic and yet tragic and Hans Ulrich Obrist et al. – flew in aspect of the whole enterprise was that to predict the ‘future’ of the museum afterwards the museum officials stated with – constructing nothing less than a public a mix of proud and pity that, due to the interview of possible candidates. These –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 13] Wouter DAVIDTS: Introduction: Museun in ¿Motion? figures gave their view on the choices the was well attended, it appeared that just a museum of the 21st century was to make. handful of the museum ‘professionals’ did During the evening program, a group of pay the effort to travel to Sittard, a city in eminent Belgian and Dutch artists and the Southern periphery of the Netherlands. museum officials discussed the critical local Immediately, the question was raised state of affairs. The idea to organize an who was to be taken responsible for this academic conference with the same title significant absence: the convenors – for grew out of the discontent of many with choosing such a remote location – or the the symposium in De Balie. For critical museum people themselves – for their reviews, see. a.o. Sven Lütticken, ‘Stedelijk lack of engagement and interest? Or, were Museum Debate (3)’, Stedelijk Museum there other, more profound and theoretical Bulletin, 16, nr. 3, 2003; Wouter Davidts, reasons to discern, besides the obligatory ‘Museum in Motion’, De Witte Raaf 18, 104 apology that people simply forgot to (2003), pp. 27-28. write it down in their agendas? Was it 4. Lawrence Alloway & John Coplans, representative for the current (and at least ‘Talking with William Rubin’, in Artforum local) state of the museum discussion, (October 1974), as reprinted in: Blotkamp (ed.), Museum in ¿Motion? / Museum in and for the debate about the museum ¿Beweging?, pp. 311-319. it signify a situation of total disinterest, 5. This idea was taken literally by Hans Ulrich Obrist, who once organized the science and for contemporary art in particular? Did vanished criticality, deadening silence even? art conference Bridge the Gap with all of the infrastructure of a conference — the parties, chats, lunches, airport arrivals — but with no actual conference. 6. One highly ironic note during the first day of conference was delivered by a woman who approached Koen Brams, director of the Jan van Eyck Academy and one of the organizers of the conference. She blamed him for the fact that there were little or no members of the staff of the major Dutch museums attending the conference. Although the conference –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 14] SYMPOSIUM: Museum het Domein, Sittard SYMPOSIUM Museum Het Domein, Sittard MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 15] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later Alan Wallach MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 16] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later In 1978, ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ appeared in the shortlived journal Marxist Perspectives. That article attempted to understand New York’s Museum of Modern Art as a ritual space in which the visitor acted out and thus in some way internalized a mythologized history of modern art. This paper will assess the strengths and weaknesses of the Duncan-Wallach argument before proceeding to a discussion of MOMA’s e olution since 1978. Circa 1978 * ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’, which I wrote in collaboration with Professor Carol Duncan, appeared in 1978, a year before the publication of Museum in ¿Motion?1 Although the two publications focused, at least to some degree, on particular institutions, they both attempted to develop a more general understanding of the art museum’s role in society, albeit in different ways. Museum in ¿Motion? reflected a sense of cultural possibility within the broad framework of the social democratic state in which the idea of an artistic avant-garde still retained something of its bite. ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ was more pessimistic. While Museum in ¿Motion? touched on the question of the art museum as an instrument of a pervasive upper class hegemony, ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ took that hegemony as its focus as well as its premise. Duncan and I thus began with the belief that the art museum ultimately functioned as an instrument of social and cultural oppression. We did not aspire to reform the museum, to make it more effective or more efficient or more responsive to the public’s needs, nor were we concerned with finding ways for the museum to reach a larger audience, minority groups, or the lower classes. For us, the museum was a historically inevitable feature of capitalist society and we thus began by thinking of it in terms of social and cultural pathologies. Our deep pessimism was very much of a piece with the historical moment, which witnessed the United States’ unacknowledged but nonetheless ignominious defeat in Vietnam, the large-scale failure of the aspirations of the civil rights movement, the then recent bloody repression of African-American civic uprisings, the precipitous demise of the radical left, and the retreat of leftist intellectuals to the academy. By the late 1970s, the United States, thwarted in Vietnam, was preparing to embark upon new imperial adventures in Central America and to make a sharp turn to the –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 17] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later right domestically (in 1980, Ronald Reagan was to assume the presidency). The second cold war, as it came to be known, was at hand. Duncan and I held somewhat different political views, but we shared a number of experiences: during the 1960s we had supported the anti-war and civil rights movements, we had both participated, although in different ways, in the student uprising at Columbia University in the spring of 1968 (an American echo of contemporaneous events in Paris), and in 1976 and 1977 we had both worked with an artists committee on a book entitled an anti-catalog, which was published as part of a protest against the Whitney Museum’s bicentennial celebration.2 That celebration had consisted of an exhibition of a collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American painting, traditional ‘masterpieces’ assembled by the art historian Edgar P. Richardson for John D. Rockefeller III. Objecting to the exhibition’s exclusivity and lack of cultural diversity, to the way it put forth a genteel, upper-class version of American history and American art, the catalog committee along with its parent organization, Artists Meeting for Cultural Change, picketed the show’s opening.3 An anti-catalog was a potpourri, an unstable mixture of heterogeneous elements in which collective editing resulted in a publication that often teetered on the edge of incoherence. Still, the publication, which was devoted to ‘questions of the historical and ideological function of American art’, often focused on the art museum. For example, images of the Milanese architect Gio Ponti’s 1971 Denver Museum and Marcel Breuer’s 1966 Whitney Museum accompanied a text arguing that art museums are designed to keep art away from people – physically, psychologically and intellectually – and to keep art remo ed from daily life. It is telling that so many modern art museums resemble windowless tombs, bunkers or bank aults. Both (…) art museums (…) are reminiscent of the fortified castle keeps of the dark ages (the Whitney actually has a moat). By design, modern art museums literally force people to experience art as untouchable, unexplainable treasures.4 These remarks echoed the critic Max Kozloff’s earlier observation that the Denver Museum exemplified ‘the feudal iconography of the new museums (…) expressive of the corporate network which defines the American economy today’.5 That feudal iconography – the brutalism of so much of late 1960s and 1970s American architecture –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 18] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later – can be taken as a perhaps not entirely conscious corporate-institutional retreat from the public realm, a reflexive desire, expressed in architectural form, to hunker down behind thick walls in the wake of uprisings that permanently transformed the social and architectural fabric of large sections of New York, Detroit, Washington, Los Angeles (which is to say Watts), and a host of smaller American cities. These particulars of then recent American architectural history provided grist for an anti-catalog’s anti-art museum protest. That protest had its roots in what was, by the mid-1970s, a tradition of artists’ protests against the policies of New York art museums beginning with demonstrations mounted by the Artworkers Coalition in the late 1960s. The group Artists Meeting for Cultural Change (known by its acronym, AMCC) had for several years brought together artists who believed in the importance, even the necessity, of political activism within as well as outside the artworld. AMCC set no requirements for membership and it eventually disintegrated in a series of bruising factional disputes, but at its highpoint it included artists from the New York section of Art and Language – Joseph Kosuth (who designed the anticatalog), Sarah Charlesworth, Ian Burn, Mel Ramsden, Saul Ostrow, and Michael Corris. AMCC’s raucous meetings and the more focused discussions of the catalog committee provided a context for a critical consideration of the role of the art museum in the artworld and in American society generally. This unacademic, and perhaps in some ways self-consciously anti-academic milieu, furnished a large part of the inspiration for ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’. The passage from an anti-catalog cited above contains the germ of our critique: that architectural form provides an essential clue to the museum’s social and cultural role. In elaborating our analysis, Duncan and I drew upon methodologies and scholarship that were at the time readily to hand. We turned to iconography, then a staple of conventional art history, which we unconventionally applied to the museum’s appearance as well as the layout of its galleries and installations. We looked to anthropological studies of ritual, especially the work of Victor Turner, which helped us understand the way in which architecture influenced visitors’ behavior in the museum. We also took into account the work of Marxist and feminist critics. Inspiration came from such current texts as John Berger’s Ways of Seeing, with its relentless questioning of received opinion about the history and institutions of western art; Linda Nochlin’s celebrated ‘Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?’ and other writings that dealt with the absence of women from art history –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 19] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later and with the ways in which women have been represented in art; Pierre Bourdieu and Alain Darbel’s L’Amour de l’Art, which investigated the place of the museum in a society divided hierarchically by class and which contained an early version of Bourdieu’s concept of ‘distinction’; and perhaps inevitably for the mid 1970s, Walter Benjamin’s ‘Work of Art in the Age of Its Mechanical Reproducibility’ and the debates surrounding it.6 ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ was thus very much of its historical moment, a product of artworld activism and the ‘new art history’, as it came to be called, which since the early 1970s had been turning radical political criticism into criticism of the congealed assumptions of a smug, conservative, and largely closed Anglo-American art-historical discourse – a discourse that had been pretty much in place since the mid 1950s. Written in a terse, almost telegraphic manner, ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ was a manifesto of the new art history and, needless to say, a deliberate provocation. Published early in 1978 in Studio International and later that year in a revised version in the short-lived but academically-prestigious journal, Marxist Perspecti es, it took aim at persistent museological myths, above all the museum’s claim to political and ideological neutrality.7 Ritualizing Modernism * ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ employed mainly conventional means to arrive at an unconventional and highly critical view of the art museum. By comparing art museums to traditional ritual structures (churches, temples, and palaces), and classifying museums according to architectural type – the modern art museum, the encyclopaedic or universal survey museum, and what we would eventually call the ‘robber baron mansion museum’ – Duncan and I were able to develop an insight into the museum visitor’s experience. We were of course aware that different visitors responded to the museum in different ways – that visitors familiar with the history of modern art might gain more from a visit to MOMA than visitors with little or no art-historical background. In this respect, we maintained that the discipline of art history provided the modern-day litany, the sacred text, that made the museum ritual coherent and meaningful. Thus, while demonstrating that museums functioned as ritual structures, we were inclined to agree with Bourdieu –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 20] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later who wrote in L’Amour de l’Art that down to ‘the tiniest details of their morphology and their organization, museums betray their true function, which is to reinforce for some the feeling of belonging and for others the feeling of exclusion’.8 The visitor’s experience, as we came to understand it, depended upon the museum’s ensemble of art and architecture. Museum architecture was not neutral, not simply a practical expedient for exhibiting works of art, but a crucial aspect of the visitor’s overall experience. Museum architecture provided a setting for ritual – an idea already latent in popular descriptions of museum visitors as ‘pilgrims’, and museums as ‘temples’, ‘churches’, and ‘palaces’. We took these commonplace metaphors seriously because they seemed to point to a central feature of the museum experience. If the museum was a ritual structure, then the works of art on display could be understood as architectural decoration or embellishment. Like the Parthenon frieze representing the Panhellenic procession or Giotto’s frescoes on the walls of the Arena Chapel, art works in museums articulated meanings already latent or, as it were, inscribed in the architecture – meanings that the visitor, in accord with the level of his or her art-historical education, realized simply by entering the museum and walking through its galleries. The museum thus both prompted and accommodated the visitor’s ritual walk, intensifying the feeling that the museum was a sacred space and that the works on display embodied society’s highest ideals and values. In sum, the museum like other types of ritual structures inculcated and reinforced belief. As we maintained at the time, the museum ‘transform[ed] ideology in the abstract into living belief’. Although Duncan and I did not attempt to show in detail how MOMA affected any particular visitor or class of visitors, our surmise about the museum’s ideological mechanisms provided a clue to MOMA’s place in the larger culture. A close reading of the museum’s architecture and iconographic programme – its choice of works of art to display in the galleries devoted to the permanent collection and the way in which these works were deployed within its gallery spaces – resulted in an analysis of the values underlying the museum’s authoritative version of the history of modern art, an analysis that perhaps somewhat predictably demonstrated how MOMA’s canonical history of modernism reinforced, symbolically, the corporate status quo. As we observed at the time, visitors working their way through the labyrinthine spaces of MOMA’s permanent collection were prompted by the architecture to –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 21] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later progress from Post-Impressionism, Fauvism, and Cubism to Dada, Surrealism, and Abstract Expressionism. These artistic movements literally defined MOMA’s modernist mainstream while German Expressionism, Mexican muralism, and pre-War American painting were relegated to so many dead ends and cul-desacs. Our reading of MOMA’s iconographic programme stressed two interrelated themes. First, we interpreted the mainstream as ‘a spiritual path that rises to ever higher levels of transcendence’ culminating in the abstractions of Pollock, Rothko, and Newman. Second, Duncan and I were particularly attentive to the ways in which images of male transcendence (equals spirit, light, intellect) played off against images of the terrible mother (femmes fatales, Medusas, whores). In this reading, the museum ritual involved an ordeal in which the visitor attains (male) transcendence by advancing past and thereby overcoming the (female) terrors of the mainstream. In other words, we interpreted the iconographic programme as a series of oppositions between female and male, matter and spirit, immolation and transcendence – terms the museum’s curators would have found entirely alien to their conscious intentions when they installed the permanent collection. For as far as Alfred Barr and his successors were concerned, the works displayed in the galleries devoted to the permanent collection represented a careful selection of indisputable modernist masterpieces. If ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ scandalized curators and art-historians, it also inspired more thoughtful responses. At the time, the most pointed criticisms centred around the question of ritual. A participant in a religious ritual is usually aware of the nature of his or her activity. Wasn’t our description of a visit to the MOMA as a ‘secular ritual’ an oxymoron – a contradiction in terms? Could ritual activity ever be unconscious or subliminal? Later critics took us to task for neglecting the problem of reception. As the museum educator Danielle Rice recently observed, Duncan and I inspired a current in critical museum studies that assumed that ‘the museum is a value-laden narrative that communicates its message effectively to all visitors, whether they know it or not’. Rice overstated her argument – she claimed Duncan and I implied that museum visitors ‘are mindless dupes of the powerful institutions that manipulate them’ – but her point about the need for reception studies is well taken.9 Thomas Patin, another recent commentator, argued that a formula Duncan and I once employed – ‘ideology structures consciousness’ – ‘has a ring of idealism and magical thinking, and lacks a specific description of how –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 22] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later institutions work upon individuals’.10 Obviously I’m not happy with Patin’s ‘magical thinking’ but I agree that beyond understanding the museum visitor’s behavior as a form of ritual activity we need to know more about how the experience of an art museum affects the public – in other words, what sort of knowledge art museums produce. Probably the most radical aspect of ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ was its scepticism when it came to prevailing ideas about museums, its refusal to credence MOMA’s (or any other museum’s) account of its motives, and its determination to subject all institutional claims, all the familiar, dreary assumptions about art and museums, to empirical and conceptual tests. For those qualities, if nothing else, our article probably is still worth reading. But the world has moved on. The tiny trickle of critical museum studies of the 1970s has become a torrent. While ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ remains a staple of anthologies and university courses, the museum Duncan and I investigated in the late 1970s has undergone two renovation and expansion projects. Impasse * In 1973, the cultural critic Russell Lynes published a book entitled Good Old Modern, a well-informed if slightly tongue-in-cheek account of the history of the Museum of Modern Art.11 In choosing his title, Lynes hit upon the central contradiction of MOMA’s early history: for how could a museum, which by definition collected and exhibited artefacts from the past, devote itself to that which was modern and up-to-date? In its early years MOMA had no hesitation about redefining the term ‘museum’. Indeed, in order to remain a museum of the modern, which in the 1930s and 1940s was synonymous with the contemporary, it adhered to a fifty-year rule according to which works in its collection that were more than a half century old – in other words, works that were, by MOMA’s definition, no longer modern – would be de-accessioned. As late as 1947, the museum sold twenty-six paintings including Cézanne’s Man in a Blue Cap and Picasso’s Woman in White to the Metropolitan Museum of Art – a move MOMA subsequently came to regret. In 1953 MOMA abandoned the fifty-year rule; three years later, it officially declared its intention of exhibiting a ‘permanent collection of masterpieces’.12 MOMA thus ceased to be a museum ostensibly focused on contemporary concerns and became a full-fledged –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 23] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later museum of the history of modernism, which it defined as beginning, historically, with Post-Impressionism. At this point ‘modern’ and ‘contemporary’ began to diverge. Yet MOMA did not abandon its earlier aspirations. Indeed, in each of its two recent expansions (in 1984 and in 2004), the museum has continued to enlarge the space it devoted to contemporary art. Moreover, in 2000 it joined forces with PS 1, a former public school building in Queens that in 1976 was converted into an exhibition space and that now functions as a showcase for the work of contemporary artists. In effect MOMA has become two museums – ‘Good Old Modern’, a museum of the history of modernism, and a museum of contemporary art. What explains this dichotomy? How to account for the museum’s inability to connect authoritatively the modern and the contemporary? In a footnote to ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual,’ Duncan and I argued that MOMA orthodoxy has led to an art-historical bind. Abstract Expressionism perfectly completed the inner logic of its doctrines. Although MOMA has collected post-Abstract Expressionist art, it is not integrated into the Museum’s permanent iconographic program. Art of the 1960s and 1970s appears in temporary installations. (…) Since MOMA orthodoxy is so deeply rooted in the art ideology of the 1950s, during the last decade or so the Museum has lost much of the influence it once had in the art world.13 What Duncan and I called ‘MOMA orthodoxy’ had its roots in the exhibitions Barr mounted at the museum in the 1930s and 1940s, shows that featured works by PostImpressionist masters (Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne, Seurat), Fauves (especially Matisse), Cubists (especially Picasso, who MOMA celebrated, and continues to celebrate, like no other artist), Dadaists, Surrealists, and so-called ‘primitive’ or tribal artists. Barr consolidated this view of the history of modernism in the 1950s in the installation of the permanent collection. William Rubin, Alfred Barr’s successor as chief curator, followed in his predecessor’s footsteps. As Rubin admitted in 1974, ‘I find my own views of the collection and about exhibiting it very much like [Barr’s]. That’s partly because I was brought up on Alfred’s museum, and on the collection as he built it’.14 Rubin, influenced by Clement Greenberg as well as Barr, turned Barr’s ideas into dogma. Kirk Varnedoe and John Elderfield, Rubin’s two successors –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 24] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later as chief curator of painting and sculpture, have done everything in their power to perpetuate the Barr-Rubin legacy. Barr’s account of the history of modernism brought art-historical order to a welter of modernist tendencies, isms, and movements. Moreover, as a history or, perhaps better to say, a teleology, it played a role in the rise of Abstract Expressionism, which then seemed, logically, the culmination of its art-historical sequence. Abstract Expressionism would be unimaginable without Cubism, Surrealism, and so-called ‘Primitive’ art. But in MOMA’s version of the history of modernism, Abstract Expressionism could only look backward, not forward. In the museum’s galleries it appears as an art-historical dead end – the formal and as it were ‘spiritual’ culmination of a quasi-linear sequence that begins with Post-Impressionism. It might be argued that MOMA could reinvent itself, that it could develop a more open or more multi-dimensional version of the history of modernism, that it could avail itself of the revisionist histories that have appeared over the last thirty years and which yield a far more complex history than Barr envisioned. It could thus find ways to link the modern to the contemporary. But here we run up against institutional moments of inertia, the way institutions become trapped within their own definitions of themselves. For MOMA, Barr’s version of the history of modernism became an institutional reflex. Almost from the beginning, the museum’s collecting took that version as its premise. Today MOMA’s audience expects nothing less than an opportunity to view the ‘masterpieces’ by Rodin, Cézanne, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso, Braque, Matisse, Brancusi, Giacometti, Mondriaan, Rothko, Pollock et al. that the museum long ago acquired and that have for generations defined its modernist mainstream. Or to put the matter another way, we might say that the split between modern and contemporary that plays itself out in the spaces of the museum represents the unacknowledged division between a broad, general audience for modern art, and a much smaller audience made up of artworld professionals and aficionados who care deeply about contemporary art. For the general audience – the approximately 22% of the United States public that visits art museums and has at least a smattering of art-historical education – the permanent collection confirms and reinforces its belief in MOMA’s canonical history of modernism.15 By contrast, the audience for contemporary art is not only much smaller but in artworld terms also far more sophisticated. Although it takes the history embodied in MOMA’s permanent collection more or less for granted, its needs and interests run in a different direction. – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 25] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later As a showcase for contemporary art, MOMA now competes with a host of other museums and display spaces. As a museum of modern art, however, it is without peer or serious competitor. For educated Americans and, I dare say, for many Europeans, MOMA’s is the authoritative account of the history of modernism – and as a museum artefact, that history is now, itself, all but sacrosanct. Thus Arthur Lubow began a recent article in the New York Times Sunday Magazine devoted to MOMA’s current $858 million renovation by announcing ‘MOMA is a church [NB]. Its masterpieces, beyond their individual merits, serve a higher purpose: to spread the gospel of modern art. The new selection and arrangement of the permanent collection will be scrutinized as closely as Scripture’.16 Lubow went on to describe how chief curator John Elderfield had spent the year prior to the museum’s reopening working feverishly with his curators and staff on installing the permanent collection. Yet despite unremitting calculation and experiment, the resulting arrangement did not depart substantially from MOMA tradition. For Elderfield and his team, even minor deviations in the selection and placement of works have been the source of unending worry and concern. As Lubow makes clear, their decision to replace Cézanne’s Bather of 1885, which had for years greeted visitors at the entrance to the permanent collection, with Signac’s 1890 Portrait of Félix Fénéon, represented a daring departure from hallowed precedent.17 Yet at the same time MOMA’s curators were wringing their hands over small adjustments to their history of modernism, they were, predictably, running into a wall in their efforts to link Abstract Expressionism to later artistic movements. As Lubow observed, ‘as the [historical] chronicle jumped back and forth between continents and began to approach our own time (…) it became more disjointed and harder to contain’.18 Writing less than two months before the expanded museum’s slated opening, Lubow noted that ‘the curators [have] yet to decide when between 1965 and 1975 to end the historical collection (…) and how to organize the contemporary space’ located on another floor of the museum.19 Nostalgia * ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ anticipated the curatorial dilemma Lubow so vividly describes. What it could not anticipate, however, was the – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 26] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later extent to which MOMA’s modernist history has itself become increasingly an object of nostalgia. We live in the era of the corporatization of the American art museum – a development that goes hand-in-hand with an unprecedented growth of the museum audience. Once the hushed, half-empty preserves of connoisseurs and upper-class aesthetes, American art museums are now obliged to appeal to a middle-class public, which they have done primarily via the medium of the blockbuster exhibition. This shift has led to crucial differences in the way the museum public approaches works of art. Fifty years ago, in an earlier phase of the history of the American art museum, the museum’s ideal visitor was an upper-class amateur who viewed the work of art as an object of aesthetic contemplation – an object that demanded a refined appreciation of its formal traits. By contrast, in today’s corporatized museum, the audience is increasingly prompted to admire works of art on other terms. The original work of art may still project an aura of authenticity and genius but it is also often an object of nostalgia for the high culture and bourgeois lifestyles of an earlier era. Thus, for example, Impressionism summons up the imagery of gracious holiday leisure à la Masterpiece Theater, while the work of Van Gogh or Picasso recalls the bravery and defiance of the avant-garde and its early supporters. In other words, blockbusters present works of art as components of popular historical narratives. They are in this respect not very different from the ‘themed’ entertainments associated with other instances of corporate culture (for example, Disneyland). Today, for all intents and purposes, MOMA’s permanent collection functions as a permanent blockbuster. It too has a theme – and as we shall see, that theme has increasingly made itself felt in the museum’s architecture.20 MOMA’s history as an institution begins with what might be called its utopian moment – the two decades following its opening in 1929. The most revealing feature of MOMA’s utopianism is the museum building itself. Designed by Philip Goodwin in collaboration with Edward Durrell Stone, the building was MOMA’s most representative artefact, not something it had collected but something it had deliberately created and the most potent signifier of its utopian aspirations. Surrounded by architectural survivals from the nineteenth century when it was completed in 1939, the Goodwin-Stone building set up an opposition between a present still haunted by a backward, Victorian past, and a future of clarity, rationality, efficiency, and functionality. – 12 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 27] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later We might at this point begin to conceive of MOMA as an undertaking of a powerful corporate elite – an elite that, as part of its claims to dominance, successfully projected its own aesthetic regime of modernity. Yet what is perhaps most remarkable about this aspect of MOMA’s history is the failure of vision that quickly followed. There were no convincing post-World War II utopias. The 1950s marked MOMA’s highpoint as an institution and the beginning of its transformation. For at this point MOMA began to look increasingly to itself and its past. Utopian projection was replaced by nostalgia for an outmoded utopia – or rather, for the time when belief in a utopian future was still credible. This romantic longing for the past’s utopia came to dominate MOMA’s practice as an institution. The three campaigns to renovate and expand the Goodwin-Stone building provide evidence of MOMA’s nostalgic attachment to its utopian origins. Between 1962 and 1964, Philip Johnson, then a disciple of Mies van der Rohe as well as a MOMA trustee, oversaw an expansion that nearly doubled the gallery space devoted to the permanent collection. Two decades after Johnson, Cesar Pelli, a one-time disciple of Eero Saarinen and then dean of the Yale School of Architecture, undertook a renovation that provided additional space for the permanent collection. Finally, Yoshio Taniguchi, who in the 1960s studied at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, at the time a Bauhaus stronghold, presided over MOMA’s most recent expansion. According to the architectural critic Cathleen McGuigan, Taniguchi’s work reveals ‘a rigorous passion for modernism, and the influence of such masters as Mies van der Rohe’.21 All three architects have sought to preserve the Goodwin-Stone facade. Johnson deliberately maintained through contrasts of colour and structure a clear distinction between the 1939 facade and his own Bauhaus-style wings. Pelli considered himself above all a custodian of MOMA’s architectural heritage. As he said at the time, when you are working on a building designed by Goodwin and Stone, that has already been changed and added to by Philip Johnson, the issue is very different; the functions, the ideas, the beliefs that shaped these buildings are still present today. Transformation is not possible.22 As McGuigan observed, Taniguchi ‘started with a homage, restoring the façades of the original 1939 museum by Philip Goodwin and Edward Durell Stone and – 13 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 28] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later Philip Johnson’s 1964 east wing’.23 MOMA’s facade thus acquired canonical status. In effect Johnson turned it into MOMA’s logo, an architectural emblem signalling the museum’s nostalgic attachment to the corporate utopianism of the 1930s. Yet if Johnson and his successors sought to preserve something of the visual contrast between the Goodwin-Stone building and adjacent structures, the resulting historical contrast reversed the original temporal sequence. Once a symbol of the future, the 1939 facade came to emblematize MOMA’s past – a past made evident through its opposition to its surroundings, which signified the museum’s present. This contrast was not without its ironies. MOMA’s utopianism now appeared as a historical relic, as so much failed prophecy in the face of Johnson’s no-nonsense steel and glass designs and dozens of similar Bauhaus-inspired buildings in the vicinity of the museum. In effect, the futuristic hopes of the 1930s were overwhelmed by the sleek, banal reality of postwar American capitalism. Pelli’s 1984 renovation underscored the growing dichotomy between modern and contemporary. While preserving what he could of the Goodwin-Stone exterior, Pelli radically revised the interior. Visitors passed from the street to the lobby and, after paying admission, proceeded to Pelli’s glassed-in atrium or ‘garden hall’. Having first entered the old museum (the facade), they again came into the museum, but this second time they in effect entered the new museum. Their progress through the building repeated the alteration between old and new, between the space of the present and the nostalgic space of MOMA’s past. In other words, the experience of the building was literally structured around a spatial dichotomy between the new museum of the atrium and the old museum of the galleries housing the permanent collection. Pelli’s atrium represented an increasingly familiar form of public space, a space that is at once grandiose and overwhelming and yet barely legible. As Frederic Jameson and Rosalind Krauss have maintained, it is a type of space that tends to suppress older forms of subjectivity and to produce, in their place, an experience that is at once impersonal and fragmented, and yet tinged with a sense of euphoria.24 The museum’s exhibition spaces thus might have been read as so many ‘insides’ to the atrium’s ‘outside’. Yet ‘outside’ and ‘inside’ do not entirely fit the situation: to cross the boundary from one to the other, to go, for example, from the atrium to the ‘intimate’ spaces of the galleries housing MOMA’s permanent collection of painting and sculpture, was to experience a profound disjunction. In effect, Pelli’s design – 14 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 29] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later further distanced MOMA’s past – a past that thus acquired an aura of unreality, a sense of being sealed-off as in a time capsule, since it was now experienced through the medium of the atrium’s present. Taniguchi’s enlarged MOMA upholds, as expected, the museum’s modernist credo. A 36 meter (110 foot) high atrium, which is reached by a staircase from the main floor, has replaced Pelli’s Garden Hall, but otherwise Taniguchi’s antiseptic, and, to my eye, rather drab design can also be read as an exercise in nostalgia. From the atrium visitors make their way to the permanent collection of painting and sculpture, which, counter-intuitively, begins on the fifth floor and continues on the fourth. Contemporary art can be found in the galleries on the second floor surrounding the atrium but not in the atrium itself that, at this writing, contains works by Rothko, Newman, de Kooning, and, incongruously, one of Monet’s largest water lily panoramas. The break between fourth and second floors and the jarring, art-historical discontinuity between the atrium and the galleries displaying contemporary art thus furnishes a corollary to the impasse MOMA’s curators encountered installing the permanent collection.25 In Place of a Conclusion * 26 In ‘Valéry, Proust, Museum’, Adorno remarks that ‘museums are like the family sepulchres of works of art. They testify to the neutralization of culture’.27In this respect, MOMA has been a ‘family sepulchre’ par excellence. For decades the museum has presented a mythologized, which is to say depoliticized, history of modernism. I do not intend to argue for fragmentation or for the separation of a historicized modernist past from a postmodernist present – the eternal present of the shopping mall and the atrium. But given the options, or rather the lack thereof, it is perhaps just as well that MOMA has never been able to connect convincingly the modern and the contemporary – that despite the museum’s best efforts, contemporary art can never be at home in its galleries *** – 15 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 30] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later Notes Mechanical Reproduction’, in Illuminations 1. Carol Duncan and Alan Wallach, ‘The [trans. Harry Zohn], London: Fontana, Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist 1973, pp. 219-253. Ritual: An Iconographic Analysis’, Marxist 7. See above, n. 1. Perspecti es 1, 4 (Winter 1978), pp. 28-51. 8. Bourdieu and Darbel, L’amour de l’art, An earlier version of the article is Carol p. 165. Translation from Bourdieu and Duncan and Alan Wallach, ‘MOMA: Darbel, The Love of Art [trans. Caroline Ordeal and Triumph on 53rd Street’, Studio Beattie and Nick Merriman], Stanford: International 94, no. 988 (1978), pp. 48- Stanford University Press, 1990, p. 112. 57. See also Carel Blotkamp et al. (eds.), Museum in ¿Motion?: the modern art 9. See Danielle Rice, ‘Theory, Practice and Illusion’, in Andrew McClellan (ed.), Art museum at issue / Museum in ¿Beweging?: and Its Publics: Museum Studies at the het museum oor moderne kunst ter Millenium, Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, diskussie, ’s-Gravenhage: Govt. Pub. Office, 2003, p. 83 1979. 10. See Thomas Patin, Discipline and Varnish: 2. The Catalog Committee, an anti-catalog, Rhetoric, Subjecti ity, and Counter-Memory New York: The Catalog Committee, 1977. in the Museum, New York: Peter Lang, 3. ibidem, pp. 68-77. 1999, pp. 134-135. 4. ibidem, p. 41. 11. Russell Lynes, Good Old Modern, New 5. Max Kozloff, ‘The Contemporary York: Atheneum, 1973. Museum: Under the Corporate Wing’, in 12. See Alfred Barr, ‘Chronicle of the Brian O’Doherty (ed.), Museums in Crisis, Collection’, Painting and Sculpture in the New York: George Braziller, 1972, p. 156. Museum of Modern Art, 1929-1967, New 6. See John Berger, Ways of Seeing, New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1967, York: Penguin Books, 1972; Linda Nochlin, ‘Why Have There Been No Great Women p. 635. 13. Duncan-Wallach, ‘The Museum of Modern Artists?’ Art News 69, 9, (January, 1971): Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’, p. 50, n. 22. pp. 22-49; reprinted in Linda Nochlin, 14. Cited in ibidem, p. 50, n. 22. Women, Art and Power and Other Essays, 15. The approximate figure of 22% is my New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, estimate based upon available data. See 1988, pp. 147-158; Pierre Bourdieu and Alan Wallach ‘Class Rites in the Age of the Alain Darbel, L’amour de l’art [2 ed.], Blockbuster’, in James Collins (ed.), Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1969; Walter High-Pop, Oxford: Blackwell, 2002, pp. Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of 120-121. nd – 16 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 31] SYMPOSIUM: Alan WALLACH: ‘The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual’ Twenty-Five Years Later 16. See Arthur Lubow, ‘Re-Moderning’, New Taniguchi’s renovations have, in effect, York Times Sunday Magazine (3 October redefined the museum’s ideal visitor. 2004), p. 61. Second – and this is a related point – the 17. ibidem, p. 65. eclipse of the Bourdieuian category of 18. ibidem, p. 64. ‘distinction’ as it manifests itself at MOMA 19. ibidem, p. 64. and its partial re-emergence within the 20. In the following paragraphs, I draw upon realm of contemporary art. Third – and Alan Wallach, ‘The Museum of Modern also related – MOMA’s role in undermining Art: The Past’s Future’, in Alan Wallach, the polarity between high and popular art Exhibiting Contradiction: Essays on the – a polarity that once seemed immutable Art Museum in the United States, Amherst and absolute. and Boston: University of Massachusetts 27. Theodor W. Adorno, ‘Valéry, Proust, Press, 1998, pp. 73-87. Museum’, in Prisms [trans. Samuel Weber 21. Cathleen McGuigan, ‘Red Hot MoMA’, and Sherry Weber], Cambridge: The MIT Newsweek (11 October 2004), p. 52. Press, 1981, p. 175. 22. Interview with Cesar Pelli, ‘The Museum of Modern Art Project’, Perspecta: The Yale Architectural Journal, 16 (1981), p. 107. 23. McGuigan, ‘Red Hot MoMA,’ p. 51. 24. See Frederic Jameson, ‘Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism’, New Left Re iew 146 (July-August 1984), p. 61; and Rosalind Krauss, ‘The Cultural Logic of the Late Capitalist Museum,’ October 54 (1990), pp. 12f. 25. For a thoughtful extended critique of the new MOMA, see Hal Foster, ‘It’s Modern But Is It Contemporary?’ London Review of Books 26, 24 (16 December 2004). 26. Had I more space I would pursue three questions having to do with MOMA and the broader museum culture of which MOMA is a part. First, the way Pelli’s and – 17 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 32] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice Christian Kra agna MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 33] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice When we talk about the ‘Museum’, we mostly refer to the Modern Art Museum, its historical development, architectural forms, social significance and ideological implications. In fact, most of the artistic reflections on the museum throughout the 20th century focused on these issues. But there is also a somehow hidden history of critical art practice dealing with the museum in a broader sense of the word. In this history the museum is seen as one of the crucial institutions of Western modernity and its problematic relations to the non-Western worlds. The Western practice of collecting, presenting and classifying other cultures is understood as an undertaking which is part of the making of a modern subjectivity organized around a set of distancing processes towards its own past and the present of others. In this essay I can only shed light on a few moments in a art history when artists were dealing with ‘collecting and displaying as crucial processes of Western identity formation’, as James Clifford put it. To approach questions like these, artists diverted their view from the Art Museum to anthropological and ethnographic collections. As my examples from the 1920s, the 1960s and the present may show, the concept of the museum as producer of collective ideas of self and other cannot be restricted to the museum’s walls, but has to be expanded into a wider range of displaying and archiving practices like popular magazines or the film industries. The work of such artists as Hannah Höch, Lothar Baumgarten and Lisl Ponger, who at different times addressed similar questions, point at the historical changes in the intersections of cultural forms of collecting and display within and outside the museum’s walls and the ever innovative ways of critical analysis they demand. During the period of European modernism artists reacted critically to various aspects of their social and ideological environment. Yet it was not until postmodernism that they began to include the museum as an institution of historiography and collective identity-formation in critical artistic practices. The attitudes of modern artists towards the institution of the museum varied between radical polemics against its preservation of tradition and the acceptance of its hold on truth. Anthropological and ethnographical collections in particular provided strong creative impulses for the early modernists. In contrast to other museums, these collections did not represent something old and well known, but rather something new and unfamiliar. The cultural productions of non-Western societies that they presented held the promise of a complete reformation of artistic accomplishment – because they seemed so fundamentally different from European traditions. In the light of such –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 34] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice a promise, it was easy to lose sight of the economic and ideological basis for such collections in colonial politics, and their function in relation to the imperialist order of the world. The fascination for everything foreign, as a source of a redraft of the self, was an obstacle to the perception of the mechanisms that construct Otherness itself. My focus in this essay will be on the beginnings, and later the more complex development, of an artistic reflection on the museum as an instance of the social transference of concepts of cultural identity and difference. I will concentrate on three examples that illuminate different aspects of institutional ethno-politics over an eighty-year period. These examples are all white European artists, chosen with the aim of considering their cultural influence by exoticism and primitivism as a problematic issue that merits investigation. In the 1920s, Hannah Höch produced a series of photomontages which, with some justification, can be regarded as a form of institutional critique avant la lettre. The series by the Berlin Dadaist, which includes eighteen to twenty works, was produced between 1924 and 1934. Most of the sheets, in small format, are individually titled, and the group of works as a whole is titled From an Ethnographic Museum. The name of the series is itself remarkable and indicates a fundamental deviance from the then current norms of an artistic approach to other cultures and their artefacts. Höch’s title clearly indicates that the motifs in the photomontages are allocated to a Western institutionalized context, and do not claim to narrate a cultural elsewhere. This title provides a framework for viewing the works even before the individual sheets are inspected more closely. Everything that might appear exotic, primitive, or strange belongs first and foremost to the discursive order of the museum and to ethnography as a scientific practice. It was the Dada environment, in particular its political variety such as Berlin Dada, that probably provided the best conditions for the development of an ‘institution-critical’ artistic perspective in the early twentieth century. Dada art was not only critically at odds with the capitalist, nationalist, and patriarchal structures of the Weimar Republic, it also developed its own media consciousness. If the basic problem of all primitive and exotic early modernist art can be described as the difficulty of distinguishing between representation and reality, then the Dadaists had chosen the reality of speech and images, in particular those from the mass media, as artistic source material. Dada methods dissect the vocabulary and rhetoric of public language and images and then assemble their critical language from the resulting –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 35] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice fragments. In the photomontages and collages of the Dadaists, photography is treated rather as part of the modern reality of the mass media than as an image of reality. According to this view, pictures have always been framed and thus act as contextualized fragments of discursive practices. The Dadaist sensibility for media representation is additionally linked to a critical and ironic reflection of the social status of art and the role of the artist. This link between media awareness and selfreflection prevents Dada to adhere to an idealistic and unrealistic notion of the cultural Other, as displayed by the primitivist mainstream of early modernism. Two further factors are significant in Hannah Höch’s unconventional use of ethnographic images and objects. Firstly, Höch held a marginal position as the only woman in a male-dominated Dada group, and her entire work is pervaded by her reflection of the role of the woman in a modern, technical, media-dominated society. Secondly, Höch worked between 1916 and 1926 for the Ullstein publishing house, which published the most popular magazines in those days. The majority of the images used by Höch in her montages originate from Ullstein magazines (Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung, Uhu, Der Querschnitt). She had direct access to these magazines, in which the new image of women was negotiated between social emancipation and new forms of commodity. The magazines were also rich sources of ethnographic and exotic images With a few exceptions, Höch combines cut-out motifs and motif fragments from both these worlds in the series From an Ethnographic Museum, merging ethno-images and images of women into hybrid figures. Although the artist mentions visits to museums as one source of inspiration to her work, the series does not relate to one particular museum, but generally reflects the location and the techniques for constructing Otherness. One of the significant characteristics of this series is the interrelated interpretation of institutions and media as producers of meaning in relation to gender and cultural differences. The combination of image fragments depicting bodies of white women with fragments of images from nonEuropean sculptures invites comparative interpretations and differs fundamentally from the usual absence of signifiers of European whites in primitivist art. The sculptures are perceived as objects in a Western-institutional frame of reference. They are exposed to the curious gaze of the spectator in the same way as their counterparts, the white women’s bodies. Where can we find the obvious clues to a reflection on the museum other than in the title of the series? First and foremost, simple, formal means refer to a museum –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 36] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice presentation. Höch often positions her figures on pedestals made of coloured paper. They are positioned in front of neutral backgrounds, in empty rooms, which often include window-like frames. These frames not only refer to showcases, but also, figuratively, to practices used for the production of meaning. For Höch, the frame also served as a symbol of desire, as exemplified by The Dream of His Life, a picture from 1925. It shows a bride in various sexually provocative poses, framed and fragmented by a whole series of picture frames. In this case, the frame undoubtedly functions as a metaphor for the way in which the depicted woman has been arranged to fit the fantasy of the male subject. The pedestals and the frames in the series From an Ethnographic Museum can be read as marks of a process of translation, to which the ethnographic object is subjected when it is transferred from the context of its origin into the context of a Western museum. In addition to these methods of representation, there is also the defamiliarizing technique of the montage itself, which fragments the sculptures and forces the fragments into new constellations – parallel to the practice of ethnographic collections that extract the objects from their cultural context of customs and meanings, and subject them to a foreign system of order. In addition it is noteworthy that Hannah Höch frequently balances non-European, sculptural upper bodies on fragile white women’s legs, which often originate from images from dance or sports – thus from staged scenarios. Finally, the institutionalized desire for something different, to which the ethnographic objects are subjected, is emphasized by the sexualized (parts of) women’s bodies. Together with the sculptures, they melt into a grotesque construction of the Other. Even if it is virtually impossible to reconstruct exactly Höch’s critical intention, her angle on the media and institutional conditions of the construction of Otherness is clearly different from that of contemporaneous artistic approaches that imagined the ‘primitive’ as a projection space providing an escape from civilization. If Hannah Höch’s museum series can be regarded as a precursor of institutioncritical art, the works of Lothar Baumgarten from the late 1960s are among the first systematic artistic reflections on ethnographic museum practice. Before going into more detail on Baumgarten’s photographic work on the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, I would briefly like to mention two other early works from 1968, which reflect the artistic preoccupation with colonialism, ethnography, and the construction of identity. The small-format collage Feather People (The Americas) refers to the practice of naming as a symbolic gesture staking a claim to power. Baumgarten put –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 37] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice feathers on a map of North and South America, on which the names of the areas show traces of Spanish, English, and French conquests. The names of indigenous peoples have been written on the feathers. Ethnography, Self and Other shows the ethnographic image of a South American Indian, and next to her the artist himself with feathers in his hair. Baumgarten’s comparison visualizes the source of the production of Otherness in the category of the self. However, the artist presents himself as the Other by adapting his image to fit that of the South American Indian, and by sticking feathers in his hair to signify a stereotype of American Indians. This self-portrait raises the question as to what extent particular symbols are able to destabilise Baumgarten’s white, male identity, whereas the other image (the Indian) asks to what extent particular symbols are able to establish or ascribe identity. Feather People and Ethnography refers to the visual politics of colonialism on both sides: the practice of making the Other visible for research purposes; and the practice of making someone invisible, not only by real eradication or expulsion, but also by erasing traces in symbolic systems such as maps. Lothar Baumgarten was a student of Joseph Beuys’s in Düsseldorf when he completed these works. Beuys was known for adopting the visionary and therapeutic role of a shaman. Working to a certain extent from a blind spot in Beuys’s late primitivism, Baumgarten set off on his ideology-critical cartography of journeys in the historical and political context of discourses and practices relating to the description, collection, and conquering of foreign cultures. It marks a clear shift from the modernist desire for difference to a critical archeology of formal representation of the Other. In 1968 Baumgarten began a two-year photographic analysis of the display systems in ethnographic museums. The resulting slide projection, Unsettled Objects (1968– 69), gives insight into the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, a late nineteenth century anthropological museum that has scarcely changed since its foundation. The eightyone slides of showcases and single collector’s items are cross-faded with words that describe the activities and effects of museum practice: displayed, imagined, classified, protected, consumed, mythologized, analyzed, claimed, transformed, photographed, framed, fetishized, etc. The museum was founded in 1884 by General Pitt Rivers for the University of Oxford, in order to oversee his private collection and make it accessible to the public. The museum’s regulations and criteria for presentation are based on the evolutionary ideas of its founder: –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 38] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice Ordinary and typical specimens, rather than rare objects, ha e been selected and arranged in sequence, so as to trace, as far as practicable, the succession of ideas by which the minds of men in a primiti e condition of culture ha e progressed from the simple to the complex, and from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous.1 Perhaps it is also of no small importance for the imperialistic context of the anthropological museum that the general drew his methodical reflections from his studies on the development of firearms. At the entrance to the large exhibition hall the visitor to the museum still encounters a collection of guns. Although it is sometimes difficult to see any order in the mass of close-standing over-filled showcases, the historical and cultural image of this institution is governed by a typological and evolutional programme, distinguishing this museum concept from ethnical and geographical systems: We ha e carried on his [Pitt Ri ers’s] comparati e method by showing, in sequence with cases illustrating the tools of early prehistoric peoples in Europe, Asia, and Africa, a series showing the tools of peoples who were in their Stone Age at the time of their disco ery by Europeans.2 This reflex-like equation of spatial distance with temporal distance is characteristic of the history of approaches to non-European culture. The phenomenon to translate space into time has been well researched in the field of ethnography. In Time and the Other, Johannes Fabian demonstrates how ethnographers describe cultures they have explored as having already disappeared or as in the process of disappearing, and thus comply with the ‘denial of coevalness’.3 This is backed up by the ‘salvage paradigm’, which, according to James Clifford, organized the Western practices of art and cultural collection. The aim is to rescue authenticity in the face of destructive historical change.4 The Pitt Rivers Museum brochure highlights the continuing relevance of this attitude: ‘So-called “primitive” societies are everywhere under threat and the Museum is acting as a curator for the world in striving to preserve and record that which may vanish totally’.5 As Lothar Baumgarten later discovered, this museum, that has only marginally been modernized, can be perceived as a ‘preserve of colonialism’.6 Unsettled Objects –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 39] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice discloses the imperialist addiction to acquiring and accumulating the unknown, the desire for control over the Other via organization and classification. All the crammed showcases contain ‘similar’ objects – although the similarity is sometimes defined by function, at other times by motif or form – and testify to an interest in collecting that is not concerned with understanding social structures, but with demonstrating a global overview. The exhibited objects do not assume their location and function in a corresponding relationship to other objects in a specific society, but rather in relation to objects that are culturally and geographically distant, with which they are supposed to share the solution to general questions concerning ‘the human race’. These are questions that have been formulated from the viewpoint of industrialized Western modernity that itself is not within the scope of the museum’s interests: ‘The Museum takes the world for its province, and for its period, from the earliest times to the present day, excluding the results of mass production’.7 Whereas the museum – rather atmospherically than argumentatively – talks about the ‘richness of our cultural diversity’, Baumgarten’s slide projection understands the anthropological museum as the manifestation of a regional formation of thought and knowledge that was founded in the historical context of colonialism. This is certainly the case with those images that deal with packaging, numeration, labelling, and the decorative rows of collected items. They show the pervasion of scientific, conservative, and aesthetic expectations. One of the most beautiful and meaningful photographs is the one that depicts an observational aid. It allows the spectator to avoid the disturbing reflection of themselves in the glass of the showcase. It refers to the systematic fading out of the structuring instance and the subject of representation from the institutional representational practices. Looking at the series of slides, one can no longer concentrate on or linger at single objects. The projection conveys a feeling of disorientation in the mass of the objects presented. It tends to provoke the desire for control in the observer, the desire to order the exotic material that can be seen only briefly in a personal frame of reference. While the observer does identify to a certain extent with the museum’s attempt at creating order, this quality again undermines the critical distance to the institution by means of an exoticism that sympathizes with the museum order. The ethnographic museum still represents one of the central institutions that organizes the social production of ideas relating to what is one’s own and what is foreign. Yet the more we tend to historicize the museum as the ‘preserve of –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 40] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice colonialism’, the more the question of its successors must be posed. As far back as the 1920s, Hannah Höch’s montages pointed out the inseparable nature of institutions and mass cultural representations of cultural differences. In Lothar Baumgarten’s slide projection a displacement of forms of presentation used in museums is suggested in the film techniques. And as we know, the primitive and exotic world of the imagination of modernist artists, from Gauguin through to Höch’s contemporaries and beyond, has always drawn from a mix of official and popular cultural sources. I would therefore like to conclude this essay by looking at an artist whose work traces the ramifications of the ethnographic paradigm in art, media, and everyday worlds of modernity. The significance of Lisl Ponger’s art practice lies in critical elimination of the determining factors shaping a Western subject’s perceptions, ideas and fantasies of the Other. This is similar to the newer approaches found in critical anthropology. In this context, Kamala Visweswaran suggested a critical movement ‘back home’ with the title Homework, not Fieldwork.8 When she sets ‘homework’ against ‘fieldwork’, her aim is not to make her own culture the subject of ethnographic research, but rather the epistemological foundations of knowledge production, the interests and motives behind research into differences and their representations. ‘”Home”, for Visweswaran, is a person’s location in determining discourses and institutions’, writes James Clifford. ‘Homework is a critical confrontation with the often invisible processes of learning (...) that shape us as subjects’.9 Lisl Ponger’s works often place the artist herself as the protagonist of the scenario . Her works focus on the subject of fantasy and the often invisible learning processes which it has been subjected to from childhood In Out of Austria (2000), a direct reference to Karen Blixen’s book Out of Africa, the encounter with the Other begins at home, in an imaginative space full of images and stories. The artist carries her bunch of lilies – here referring to a photo by Karen Blixen – and looks out on an African countryside with a snow-covered mountain in the background, from which several stereotypical black bearers are walking towards her. She is dressed in a robe with a pattern based on the motif of the moor that denotes the well-known Austrian Meinl coffee brand. Wrapped in the images of the Other that she brings from home, she meets the Africans in a process of recognition of the preconceived images that she has carried with her. Ponger highlights this circular structure of perception with the red headdress of the Meinl moor, the tropical hat –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 41] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice worn by the woman in the same shade of red, and the red load of the bearer walking towards her. The image of Africa itself is a painted enlargement of an illustration on a box of a children’s game from the 1950s, the time when the artist was a child, and is, like the Meinl moor, a reference to a local variation of the unconscious acquisition of stereotypes. The artist has stepped into the place of the eliminated main character in the original picture – a white explorer, whose individuality was a significant contrast to the stereotyped Africans. This exchange of protagonists clearly shows how the staged individuality of the white traveller against a background of stereotypes derives from a pattern made up of pre-existing images. The real plants and the painted plants used in the picture serve to create an illusion of a homogenous image space, as in the convention of studio photography of ‘foreign people’ in their ‘natural environment’. Such techniques are related to those of the diorama in natural history and ethnological museums, which seek to contextualize their exponents. In her picture Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis (2000), Lisl Ponger stages an encounter between such a museum presentation and the history of the anthropological spectacle. A young black woman stands straight and stiff between stuffed zebras in an ‘Africa museum’ on the outskirts of Vienna. The pattern on her dress is similar to the zebra’s stripes. While the animals in the photograph create the impression of being alive, the woman looks frozen, as if her gestures were anticipating the freezing of the living by the photographic apparatus. Her closed eyes decline any form of communication with the reifying view of the museum or the photograph. It is an uncanny scene that recalls the showpieces of colonized people. The title of the picture refers to a popular song popular at the time of the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904 and alludes to the displays of ethnic peoples that were held there.10 In these images, the museum is regarded as a ‘xenographic’ medium amongst many, and is cross-faded with references to film, photography, and popular and everyday culture. The way in which the Western practice of collecting things from other cultures and presenting difference has been translated into new media is the theme of a work From the Wonder House (2002). It consists of a multifaceted wall of pictures, grouping a number of promotional images for Hollywood and other films around a central photograph showing the artist as the protagonist of an undefined action. The principle of single images organized around one central image can be traced back to a well-known model from art galleries, a model that links the historical idea of the – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 42] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice order of things with the demonstration of knowledge and power, as was established in the course of the Enlightenment in the Western centers – arising from the interaction between exploration and conquest and symbolic and real appropriation of the world. Ponger’s work translates the production of this consciousness into the present time with its media industry. The stills from popular films such as Die blonde Frau des Maharadscha (1962), The Maharaja’s Blond Wife or West of Zanzibar (1928), in which white protagonists meet non-white masses, stand for the modern version of earlier genres of entertainment and their copious dissemination of perceptions, saturated with ideology, of ‘foreign countries and peoples’. The dividing line between fiction and science, between adventure novels and research reports, which has always been somewhat blurred, is illustrated by From the Wonder House from a modern-day perspective on the political world order: here, surrounded by cinema shots, we see a picture of a woman, dressed in male clothing and carrying a real (gun) and a symbolic (camera) weapon, that looks out over a country that, despite all defamiliarizing effects, can only be recognized today as ‘Afghanistan’. The title From the Wonder House refers to the Wunderkammer or wonder chamber, precursor of the museum as a modern institution for conveying images of the world, which both have met their successors in Hollywood and CNN productions. *** – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 43] SYMPOSIUM: Christian KRAVAGNA: The World in the Museum: Ethnography, Culture, and Critical Art Practice Notes 10. See also Tim Sharp, ‘ImagiNative’ in Lisl 1. General Pitt Rivers in 1874 in an address Ponger: Fotoarbeiten/Photographs (exh. to the Royal Anthropological Institute cat.), Vienna: Kammer für Arbeiter und in the South Kensington Museum, cited Angestellte für Wien, Bildungszentrum, from Beatrice Blackwood, The Origin and 2000, pp 53-72. De elopment of the Pitt Ri ers Museum, Oxford: Pitt Rivers Museum University of Oxford, 1991, p. 2. 2 . Blackwood, The Origin and De elopment, p. 3. 3 . Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes its Object, New York: Columbia University Press, 1983, p. 31. 4 . James Clifford, ‘Of Other Peoples: Beyond the “Salvage Paradigm”’, in Hal Foster (ed.), Discussions in Contemporary Culture, Seattle: Bay Press, 1987, pp. 121-130. 5 . Blackwood, The Origin and De elopment, p. 19. 6 . Lothar Baumgarten, Untitled Statement in Kunst-Welten im Dialog: Von Gauguin zur globalen Gegenwart (exh. cat. Museum Ludwig Cologne), Cologne: DuMont, 1999, p. 372. 7 . Blackwood, The Origin and De elopment, p. 19. 8. Kamala Visweswaran, Fictions of Feminist Ethnography, Minneapolis, Minn., and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1994, pp. 101-105. 9. James Clifford, Routes: Tra el and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century, Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1997, p. 85. – 12 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 44] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture Architecture :: Sculpture John C. Welchman MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 45] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture My aim here is to introduce some of the relations posed by recent artists, architects and critics between the domains of architecture and sculpture. I don’t intend my remarks to operate as some kind of latter day paragon that competition for preeminence among the arts so popular in the late Renaissance; nor – for reasons of time and focus as much as anything else – as a contribution to the discourse of modernist utopianism in which painting and sculpture collaborate with architecture and design, collapsing their mutual distinctions in the name of a progressive future. Nor again is my aim to take sides in what seems like an endless sequence of professional jibes as artists and architects measure the difference between their activities in a series of quips and put-downs. We all remember Barnett Newman’s witty definition of sculpture as what you bump into when backing up to look at a painting; or Marcel Duchamp’s response to a question about the difference between sculpture and architecture: ‘One has plumbing’. If anything these dicta have become even more common with the rise of postmodern architecture and its aftermath and the emergence of a strand of thought – in which Frank Gehry, as we will see, is deeply implicated – that proposes a newly accelerated set of overlaps and interplays between sculpture and bespoke building. Arguing against this relation for example, Rafael Viñoly joked that the difference between ‘big sculpture and architecture is the waterproofing’. And Gehry himself chipped in when he noted that the main difference between sculpture and architecture was, simply, ‘the windows’. With these anecdotes in mind, perhaps we should commence a broader account of the relations between sculpture and architecture on site. Looking at the characteristically dramatic shots of the Guggenheim Bilbao with which we are all familiar, one of things we notice – though probably not at first – is the telling presence of two sculptures, equally theatrical in their own right, doing battle for attention at the entrance (Jeff Koons’ Puppy, 1997) and rear (Louise Bourgeois’ 30’ tall bronze and steel spider, Maman, 1999). These works are symptomatic of several relational registers put in negotiation between architecture as spectacle and sculpture conceived as supplement – or even pantomime. First, the gigantism of the sculptures, their inflation of an animal and an insect to dozens of times normal scale subtly confers a sense of diminishment on the building they preface: for if we read it as we understand them, the Guggenheim itself is reduced to the scale of what they already are – large sculptures. –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 46] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture Secondly, we should note the particularities of these works: both are zoomorphic, both represent real, recognizable creatures. One, the most familiar and saccharine of domestic animals, the other an inhabitant of the dusty corners of domestic space. One is characterized by romping and innocent ebullience; the other, as in Redon’s noirs, associated in the Symbolist moment with darkness and fear – but also aligned by Bourgeois with the nurturing vulnerability of motherhood. Both bring with them then intimations of an utterly different order than that normally brokered by either architecture or sculpture. For neither discourse nor institution would seem comfortable with the casual banality of the Koons or the menace and finesse of the Bourgeois. In one sense, thirdly, these animals stand-in as the ironic endgame of that tradition of guardian spirits and hybrids that stretches back to the Egyptian sphinxes and the Lion Gate of Mycenae and forward to the grotesques of the medieval tradition located on portals or in the nooks and crannies of interior ecclesiastical space. In another, they act as populist foils and vernacular embellishments lending the structure and precincts they command a kind of folksy accessibility or carnival affirmation. And it’s in this condition that they may be said to participate in that orientation of architecture with homespun Americana and street-smart-lite that was introduced into Gehry’s projects through an encounter with Pop art mediated by Claes Oldenburg. Finally, the two-step sculptural bestiary that punctuates public navigation of the Guggenheim Bilbao, is the whimsically deadbeat party of an antithesis between inside and outside that implicitly sanctions the ‘serious’, mostly abstract, nature of the sculpture displayed within the museum – emblematized most notably of course by the stringently non-mimetic work of Richard Serra – but also by that of Chileda and others.1 I want to begin drawing out some of the wider issues in the relation between sculpture and architecture with a head text from one of Frank Gehry’s most cited and celebrated statements. ‘I don’t know where you cross the line between architecture and sculpture’, he famously remarked on the eve of the opening of the Guggenheim Bilbao. ‘For me, it’s the same. Buildings and sculpture are threedimensional objects’.2 Gehry’s insistence at the unveiling, or should we say, launch, of his most dramatic structure, on the shared conditions and boundaryless communion between –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 47] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture architecture and sculpture has been one of the unswerving certainties of his shifting career. In a statement published nearly two decades before, for example, Gehry notes, quite forthrightly: ‘I approach each building as a sculptural object, a spatial container, a space with light and air, a response to context and appropriateness of feeling and spirit. To this container, this sculpture, the user brings his baggage, his program, and interacts with it to accommodate his needs. If he can’t do that, I’ve failed’.3 In one of the earliest of his many conjugations of architecture and sculpture – pairings so numerous that in one form or another they dominate the popular reception of his oeuvre – Gehry situates the notion of a building as a sculptural object at the head of a concentrated mini-reprise of the nature of his enterprise. The sculptural approach to architecture presides over what appear as secondary, if necessary, functions of any building: as a ‘spatial container’, a shell or shelter within which various activities may take place – dwelling, working, viewing; an organization of space infused with light and air (this definition is sufficiently abstract that it could be coupled with either the sculpture or container orientations); and as a ‘response to context’, an affirmation of the co-dependency of a structure on its site, location and their histories that it further defined with the invocation not only of a material or locative specificity, but of a kind of ‘appropriateness’ that Gehry links with emotion and spirituality in something like a latter-day deployment of the empathetic as a measure of architectural outreach. Inverting – perhaps symptomatically – the initial ascendance of sculptural objectivity over spatial containerization, Gehry concludes this concentrated itemization by attending to a final condition of architecture that he locates in the interactive reception of the building by an individualized user whose particular needs or programmatic orientations have to be ‘accommodated’. Gehry’s commitment to a sculptural architecture, highlighted here and developed in quite nuanced, if sometimes inconsistent, detail throughout his career, points us then to a founding orientation of his work quite distinct from the kinds of selfconscious theorization or working assumptions that motivated previous architectural regimens – functionalism or commercial iterability; urbanism; civic, autocratic or religious monumentality, to cite only some of the most obvious cases. But the relational question I am beginning to frame here is flanked by two converging extremities that I want, for the sake of scale and focus, to foreclose. The –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 48] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture first is an issue that I will pose here in the simplest of terms as a series of questions: what is the relation between architecture and the aesthetic? And what contribution, distinct or otherwise, to this relation has been made by Gehry’s practice? I will argue that responses to these questions might best be accommodated if the sculptural is adequately situated as the crucial mediating term in the passage, if indeed there is one, from architecture to the aesthetic.4 The second issue is really a replay of the first, but in a different key, that of the mainstream reception of Gehry’s projects, usually played out in the arts and editorial sections of regional newspapers between the announcement and construction of a local Gehry project. The latest of these can be found in the Toronto Star and Globe about a projected extension to the Art Gallery of Ontario.5 But almost without exception such discussions turn on the same repertoire of arguments and historical examples, locking them in a polarity from which few commentators seem able to escape, to pose the question of whether Gehry is designing a building in the service of its function or an art work that by implication traduces and in effect spoils the former with an excess of the latter. I don’t want to suggest by any means that these questions are irrelevant, nor even that either local or aesthetically generalized responses are somehow out of order. My task here is much more modest. I want to demonstrate that for different but related reasons the aperture of the polarity between locality, function and the aesthetic is too great in these accounts, and the resultant adjudication of one over the other may be, in the end, a false choice, falsely premised. In what follows I will think through several horizons of relationality according to which the practices – and effects – of architecture and sculpture have been either thought together, or knowingly prized apart (and occasionally both at the same time). Largely because they so usefully summarize or allude to a considerable number of the relational aspects attended to by artists, historians and critics, perhaps the best place to start is by returning to the texture of Gehry’s own observations and opinions about the exchange between architecture and sculpture. But by doing this I do not want to ignore the important fact that many critics have followed Gehry’s lead by anointing the architecture/sculpture conjunction as the foundation stone on which his success and celebrity are built. I’ll cite just one example here (a couple more follow below). In her address on the occasion of the award to Gehry of the Pritzker Prize in 1989, Ada Louise Huxtable observes that Gehry’s ‘explorations –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 49] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture (…) characteristically take place at the point where architecture and sculpture meet in anxious and uneasy confrontation; this is the difficult, dangerous and uncharted area that he has made his own’.6 Here, then, are some strata in Gehry’s wide-ranging thought on the terms and implications of a sculptural architecture. First, he notes on several occasions the relative separateness of architecture and sculpture, or at least that they may have different agendas, aims and consequences. Nowhere is this more apparent that when Gehry is self-critical about the final effect of a sculptural or architectural element, as when he bluntly assesses his error with the copper ‘sculptural piece’ for the Advanced Technology Laboratory Building at the University of Iowa in Iowa City (1987/89-92), which, despite his intention to rhyme its material with ‘the copper of the Student Union’, he simply ‘did wrong’.7 Even here, however, the sculptural is never quite sequestered from the architecture that governs it. For the amplitude of Gehry’s error is double that of a purely sculptural mistake: according to his mea culpa, the piece fails not only on its own terms, but also in relation to the relationship for which it strives – that of the site-specific repetition of its signature material. The relatively traditional role of sculpture as an additive or supplement to the arena of architecture is attested elsewhere in Gehry’s work, as at the Headquarters of the Progressive Corporation in Cleveland Ohio (1987 +); with the rooftop sculpture terrace programmed as a discrete element into the American Center, Paris (199193); or by the logic of adjacency, as at the private home with guest house by Philip Johnson in Cleveland Ohio, where a sculptural work by Claes Oldenburg is set in the context of Gehry’s building, or in the courtyard in front of the Fritz B. Burns Student Center at Loyola University Law School (1978 +), which is home to another Oldenburg sculpture, Toppling Ladder with Spilling Paint, added to the ensemble in 1986. It’s here too, under the aegis of the traditional, that we might set out some of the numerous more conventionally regulated encounters between Gehry and sculpture, which include his own sculptural works, such as the fish sculpture in Barcelona, or his glass-and-wood sculpture Standing Glass Fish on view at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden at the Walker Art Center, and direct collaborations with sculptors, notably, of course, with Claes Oldenburg but also with Richard Serra, with whom he worked on the design of two unrealized bridge projects, including one for Tate Modern in London and another for the exhibition Collaboration: Artists and Architects –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 50] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture (Architectural League of NY, 1981), which envisaged a connection between the World Trade Center and Chrysler Building with anchoring elements of giant Gehry fish and a Serra pylon in the East and Hudson Rivers. Gehry has also produced a sequence of exhibition designs, many of them for exhibitions of sculpture, such as German Expressionist Sculpture (1983) at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, for which he built arguably his most traditional edifice, reconstructing a portion of a niche in a brick church façade to provide a simulation of what was probably the original location of an Ernst Barlach sculpture (visible in the background of several photographs documenting the show). Occasionally, this normativity is knowingly traduced, set up as a set-up, if you like, and nowhere more cunningly so than when Gehry wittily recalibrates sculpture – through architecture – as natural form in the garden of his own house after its 199293 renovation. Here architecture takes on the pictorial role of the frame in order to serve as a special catalyst that produces nature as public sculpture: ‘I wanted to expose the beautiful specimen cactus in my garden to the public view. I wanted to present it like a public sculpture’.8 In addition to these situations for sculpture as art-work or architectural extra, the sculptural is considered by Gehry, secondly, not as a discrete practice or regimen of specific objects but as one of the many – and seemingly one of the most important – of the signifying effects of his architecture. Consider this observation about the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles: ‘the building’s orientation, combined with the curving and folding exterior stone, will present highly sculptural compositions as viewers move along (…)’. Gehry’s comment collides several signal aspects of his thinking about the experience of architecture – to which we will return. These include movement and temporality, ascribed to the building itself, with its curves and folds, but also attributed to the perceptual sequencing of a visitor’s itinerary; and the key notion of sculptural compositionality, a telling formula that will allow us to trace some strands in the history of the modernist theory of ‘composition’ so vigorously disputed in vanguard art practice from the 1960s on – and crucial I would argue to the emergence of Gehry’s signature practice. The sculptural effect that arises from architecture appears to develop from two different understandings of what exactly sculpture is in the writings and comments of Gehry and his associates. At one extreme, the sculptural is the product of concentrated or spectacular art-like assemblages of space and materials that lends to –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 51] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture a building something that delivers it to an aesthetic condition beyond its function. It is in this sense that the Headquarters for Vitra International, near Basel, Switzerland (1988/92-94) is described as ‘flamboyant and sculptural’.9 Or, in the same vein, that the nature of its ‘communal support areas (…) allowed them to take on richer, sculptural spaces’.10 As with many of Gehry’s commissions, the correlation of the sculptural with the dramatic or the flamboyant does not emerge in isolation from other effects or different orders of association. At Vitra, of course, the sculpturally avant-garde spectacle offers an enclosure within which, as Charles Jencks and others have noted, elements of design themselves, in the form of privileged items of furniture-becoming-sculpture, are isolated as singular, Platonic and exemplary on their plinths and pedestals. Here, then, sculpture in its para-architectural disguise offers shelter for design made over as sculpture in its traditional incarnation. The plural and antithetical operations of sculpture’s agenda so vividly present at Vitra are apprehended as singularities elsewhere. One reading of the American Center in Paris, for example, pronounced it ‘slightly too unified, like a sculptural element’, attributing this shortcoming to the fact that ‘it was not completed to Frank’s design’.11 The purportedly more conventional appearance of the Center, driven by a Parisianizing plainness much remarked on by its critics, becomes another – here excusable – architectural error that is lent a palpable gestalt by invoking the discursive trope of the sculptural – defined in this instance by unadventurous homogeneity, stasis and unity. Yet again, however, we witness a designation driven by the ubiquitous and deceptive sculptural metaphor that ends up being turned back against itself. Robert Maxwell, for example, delivers as an approbation of one of Gehry’s more whimsical buildings, the offices of the Chiat/Day advertising agency in Venice, California, with its façade famously pivoted on Oldenburg’s gigantic binoculars, virtually the same pronouncement that was offered as a rationale for the relative failure of the American Center: Chiat/Day, he affirms, is successful as architecture because it is ‘sculpturally unified’.12 The building succeeds according to this account because of its ability, measured and defined in sculptural terms, to digest and resolve the outrageous and outsized object – the very symbol of that technological optic devised to conquer space, bringing the far to the near – that administers its fearless symmetry. –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 52] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture It’s clear that the final frontier of the sculptural metaphor deployed by Gehry arrives with that special organization of form and material – and its privileged ‘truth’ long designated as the aesthetic. Gehry works out this aesthetic in generalized terms that confer on architecture the double premium of pictorial immediacy and sculptural order: Painting had an immediacy, which I cra ed for architecture. I explored the processes of raw construction materials to try gi ing feeling and spirit to form. In trying to find the essence of my own expression, I fantasized the artist standing before the white can as deciding what was the first mo e. I called it the moment of truth… The moment of truth, the composition of elements, the selection of forms, scale, materials, color, finally, all the same issues facing the painter and the sculptor. Architecture is surely an art, and those who practice the art of architecture are surely architects.13 The recipe set out here is deceptively simple: immediacy and raw construction, admixed with feeling and spirit, articulated by composition (the key process that facilitates mobility and interrelation between discourses, as we will see) and set in motion by an originating ‘moment of truth’ – all this makes architecture an ‘art’. There is so much at stake here in every word, phrase and assumption that I can only respond to it somewhat cheaply. Let me cite a ringing endorsement of Gehry’s synaesthetic dream: We ‘share’, notes one of the prefaces to the Guggenheim Museum’s own exhibition, Frank Gehry, Architect (2000-01), ‘Mr. Gehry’s ongoing search for “the moment of truth” – the moment when the functional approach to a problem becomes infused with the artistry that produces a truly innovative solution’. I draw your attention to the ‘we share’ – and to the correlation of artistry and the delivery of ‘truly innovative solutions’. This preface was written by one Jeff Skilling, President and Chief Executive Officer of Enron. Cheap, perhaps, but telling nonetheless: for if the ingredients of Gehry’s recipe can be selectively stirfired in a sauce that cooks the corporate books, then the triangulations which it spawns are, doubtless, connected by some rather faulty wiring. Irony, chilling or delicious, aside, the question remains: Can we learn anything from this litany of iterations and outright paradoxes in the interleaving of architecture –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 53] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture and sculpture beyond the obvious fact that reading one through the other is clearly desired, privileged and even compulsive in the reflections of both Gehry himself and many, if not most, of his critics and commentators? I think the answer is, yes, we can. For what might result from this inquiry will clarify something at least about the nature of current avant-garde architecture, about the relation between architecture and both the aesthetic and the social, and about the new forms of congruence, or co-dependency, between architecture, sculpture and painting, media, technology, and the public sphere at a moment when both the material and conceptual separateness between these domains is fast diminishing. In my sketch of Gehry’s negotiations between sculpture and architecture I cited several occasions – most notably perhaps in his account of a visitor’s dynamic experience of the Walt Disney Concert Hall – when architecture’s sculptural orientation is aligned with the artistic effects of composition. Gehry’s defence of composition in architecture has three main components. The first arises from the generalized association of composition with the aesthetic or the artistic – and its ‘truths’. The second relates to the different realizations of compositional arrangement associated with various periods in Gehry’s career – ranging from quasi-modernist singularity in the earliest works, (such as the Danzinger Studio and Residence, 1964-65, Hollywood, CA), through a syntax composed with modular elements, or an assemblage of distinct geometries (as inTeam Disneyland Administration Building, 1987-95, Anaheim, CA) to the seething fractal and curvilinear forms of the Guggenheim Bilbao and after (the Experience Music Project, 1995-2000, Seattle, Washington). The third is that noted in my leading example, a situation in which compositional effects arise from the complex perception of the building from constantly shifting points of view. Versions of all of these understandings of the compositional were formulated – and disputed – in the development of the historical avant-garde, and did not cease to be a preoccupation for visual artists after the mid-century. In many ways it remained the key point of investment and antagonism for all modernist art. It was also the most important point of calibration for avant-garde and neo-avant-garde disavowals or reinventions of formal order. And it is of course these destinies of the compositional that were inherited most directly by Gehry. There is little doubt that a signal component of Gehry’s architecture has been achieved in sustained relation to the work and ideas of successive post-war – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 54] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture generations of late modernist, combine, Pop, installation, Minimalist and Earth artists who produced between them a startling new matrix for the production of art work in three dimensions as well as a series of powerful reflections on the relations between sculpture and architecture, art work and landscape, institutional and public space. Many of these artists, such as Oldenberg, Ed Kienholz, Anthony Caro, and Richard Serra have collaborated with Gehry and/or count among his friends. Others, including Gordon Matta-Clark, Robert Smithson, Dan Graham or Hans Haacke made important, often more critical, interventions in the reciprocal relations between sculpture, architecture and their social or natural contexts. Certain aspects of these relations can be generalized across individuals and movements, such as, for example, the interest shared by many of these artists in the deployment of cheap or everyday materials. ‘My artist friends’, said Gehry, ‘people like Jasper Johns, Bob Rauschenberg, Ed Kienholz, Claes Oldenburg, were working with very inexpensive materials – broken wood and paper – and they were making beauty. These were not superficial details, they were direct, it raised the question of what was beautiful. I chose to use the craft available, and to work with the craftsmen and make a virtue out of their limitations’.14 Other components of what emerges as a complex tessellation of exchanges, influences and deferrals were worked out with different emphases in the theory and practice of individual artists whose allegiances, clear from the names rehearsed above, range from variants of modernist formalism to thorough-going institutional critique. In a lecture on sculpture and architecture delivered at the Tate Gallery in London in March 1991, Anthony Caro sketches a relationship that with numerous emphases and inflections is fundamental to the generation that opened up new understandings for sculpture after Abstract Expressionism: (…) since the Sixties, sculpture has not been far away from architecture. In the Sixties and after, sculpture extended itself so it explored almost the same space as the architect’s. Not quite the same space, because sculptors’ space always, it seems, demanded an in isible wall between spectator and work. In those days sculptors were absorbed with making a new ocabulary for sculpture and that meant getting right away from old-fashioned modes and methods. Styling sol es nothing. Ne ertheless, to ha e realised the closeness of abstract sculpture to architecture would at that time ha e horrified us. All the – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 55] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture same we were using rods that felt like handrails e en if they were not for grasping, making inter als like doorways e en though one could not go through them, enclosing space in works that felt like rooms though one could explore them with the eyes only.15 Caro confronts us here with an anxious proximity between sculpture and architecture that announces the retrospective ‘horror’ of their closeness, and concludes with a series of suggestive itemizations of their allusive dysfunction. The sculptural ‘rods’, ‘intervals’ or enclosed ‘space’, of which he spoke, offer intimations of their more concrete architectural correlates – handrails, doors, rooms – yet do not precipitate the specific action or experience associated with them – grasping or holding, entering and exploring (with the body). This hedged proposition speaks quite powerfully to the type of abstraction for which Caro reached, one that dwells in formal implication, invoking – but always deferring – the specificity of situations that are lifelike, embodied or programmed by function. At the same time it suggests the measure of his separation from the generation that succeeded him – and from the rise of architectural practices inhabiting a similar revision; for almost everything that Caro counts out here, but particularly, of course, the relegation of somatic perception, become crucial elements of the Minimalist platform. Caro, appears to have responded later in his career to this shift – by virtue, in good part at least, of a direct encounter with Gehry in the late 1980s. In the summer of 1987, Caro and Gehry came together at the Triangle Workshop at Pine Plains, New York to collaborate on an architectural/sculptural ‘village’. A recent account of this meeting notes that: There ha e long been elements of buildings in his [Caro’s] work but it was after a summer workshop in America in 1987 with architect Frank Gehry that the idea of exploring the relationship between architecture and sculpture took off. Freed from the constraints of functionalism bar the need to make their structures stand up, Caro and Gehry knocked up o er a period of two days a sprawling, quirky and extraordinary hybrid construction in wood that combined ramps, steps, towers and other architectural elements, all used creati ely and intuiti ely as sculptural elements.16 – 12 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 56] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture The effect on Caro and his work is obvious: the extended practicum with Gehry engendered the very possibility that a direct relationship between sculpture and architecture once termed horrific could not just be redeemed into some kind of new permissibility, but might actually take over as the driving force of his later career: ‘the most ambitious area of his output is only just coming to fruition, an area he calls ‘sculpitecture’.17 It is tempting to suggest that for Gehry, always less direct and usually more cautious about the attribution of specific determinants for his work, the effect was somewhat equal and opposite. In other words, the experience of modeling, experimenting and playing with one of the magi of high modernist three dimensional form allowed him to redigest aspects of the imaginative free-play of shapes and volumes that in the same year he would begin to lay down as one of the foundations of the Guggenheim Bilbao. Such a conclusion is surely too conjectural – and too pat. But while the momentum behind the pen that worked-up Gehry’s famous napkin sketches – those almost mythological blueprints consecrated to the foundation of the Bilbao museum – cannot by any means be attributed to Caro, the meeting between them and Caro’s emblematization of advanced sculptural abstraction constitute one strand of the formative interplay between sculptural and architectural discourse that I am attempting to trace here. Another arises from a second set of interrelationships, both personal and professional, this time with Serra. Caro’s ‘horror’ – whether feigned or projected – notwithstanding, Serra’s views on architecture are altogether tougher. During a series of interviews in the 1980s, most notably with Peter Eisenman in 1983, Serra establishes several of the grounds for his dispute with architecture. These include the propensity of both modernist sculpture (he mentions the ‘portability’ of Alexander Calder and Isamu Noguchi and the ‘site-adjusted folly’ of Henry Moore) and midcentury architecture to be bound by their points of origination in the studio – with the result that both practices default on their relationships with scale and context. ‘Architects’, he notes, ‘suffer from the same studio syndrome. They work out of their offices, terrace the landscape, and place their buildings into the carved site. As a result the studio-designed then site-adjusted buildings look like blown-up cardboard models’. There are designated ‘exceptions’, of course, and – significantly for the present context – Serra’s list reads as follows: ‘Le Corbusier, Wright, Kahn, Gehry (…)’.18 – 13 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 57] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture Secondly, Caro’s rather coy ‘horror’ is converted by Serra into a more menacing scene of ‘annoyance’ engendered ‘when sculpture enters the realm of the noninstitution, when it leaves the gallery or museum to occupy the same space and place as architecture’. This move, and its concomitant redefinition of ‘space and place’ in terms of what Serra calls ‘sculptural necessities’ precipitate, then, one of the antagonisms on which his practice thrives … and ‘architects become annoyed’. In the end, annoyance (on the part of architecture), though never quite counted out, is quickly converted into the communal currency of New York postmodernism in the 80s, as Serra makes it over in his very next sentence as critique (from the point of view of sculpture): ‘Not only is [architecture’s] concept of space being changed, but for the most part it is being criticized’. In this process the self-referentiality so coveted by the modernist paradigm is formatted as an aggressive re-territorialisation, for ‘[t]he criticism can come into effect only when architectural scale, methods, materials, and procedures are being used’.19 Thirdly, Serra is also critical of attempts by post-modern ‘contextualists’ such as Robert Venturi (with whom he once had an extended argument) who seek to transpose the site-specific into an extension of the ‘indigenous cultural situation’, outflanking it as it were with an overdose of vernacular trappings – and in the process dooming the result to nostalgia and mere contextual affirmation. Fourthly, in a position drawn out by Eisenman, Serra speaks once more to the idea of ‘noncompositionality’, here derived form the absence of a ‘hierarchy of parts’ he perceives in the paintings of Jackson Pollock, and set against the European pictorial tradition discussed above – Matisse, the Cubists, Mondrian. Reacting to Serra’s anticompositional activation of voids and spaces, Eisenman suggests that ‘it is not the elements of composition in architecture – the bay, the column, the window – that are interesting, but what is between them’.20 And finally, Serra returns to another issue also raised by Caro: the question of the ‘inhabitability’ of his work, particularly the urban sculptures such as Rotary Arc and Tilted Arc in New York and Clara-Clara in Paris, which, as Alfred Pacquement put it, may ‘discover their identity through the people who pass them by’.21 Serra offers two responses. One recaps the stringent separation he always maintained between sculpture and architecture by underlining that the critique his sculpture brokers exposes the ‘deficiency’ of architecture precisely because its scale and situation are produced on comparable terms. The other appears to concur with Caro’s view, and – 14 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 58] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture even specifies virtually the same details: [my sculptures] ‘have passageways, but no doors, no windows, no roofs’. While Caro understands the similarity-in-difference between sculpture and edifice as an abstract allusion, Serra insists on pressing home what he considers the most consequential implication of the modernist separation of sculpture from the pedestal – that, form this moment on, it always has the potential ‘to become a structure that you can enter into’.22 These are some of the contexts then for the installation in 1999 of Serra’s massive hot-rolled Cor-Ten steel sculptures, the Torqued Ellipses, in the Fish Gallery on the ground floor of the Guggenheim Bilbao. This gargantuan space, reached directly from the soaring central atrium, is a little longer than a football field and about half as wide, comprises nearly 35,000-square-feet and is topped by a dramatically various ceiling that ranges from around 35 to 75 feet high. In their discussion of this work, ‘Sculpture in the Space of Architecture’, Aruna D’Souza and Tom Mcdonough, rehearse Serra’s ‘notoriously complex relation to architecture’ as he ‘is seduced by its ability to definitively shape our experience of the world, and yet harshly critical of the continuous compromises – of program, budget and pragmatic vision – to which it is subject’.23 Their suggestion, however, that the ‘Torqued Ellipses’ function as ‘metaarchitecture, that is, as a discourse about architecture and its possibilities’, seems somewhat misplaced. For it overlooks both the striking accommodation of Serra’s massive but transient curves within Gehry’s structural undulations – a situation that is founded almost on rhyme or mimicry – and, on the other hand, whatever is residual in that resistant critical capacity of his sculptures to challenge the architectural, even on its own terms. From within the inner sanctum of a space that may have responded to their gravitational pull, Serra’s sculptures concur with double agenda of autonomy and contextualism that he has always maintained as the goal of a ‘symbolic’, ‘poetic’ and finally ‘useless’ art. Sculpture can subsist on the threshold between autonomy and site, but architecture, with its necessary dependence on program and function, client and commission, simply cannot.24 To close I want to shuttle to the end of the long tradition of counter-compositional discourse, and invoke a scene of compositional diminishment that seems quite alien even to the theatrical futurism of the Guggenheim Bilbao. This move surely signals some of the limit-terms of the revitalized compositionality defended by Gehry. Paul Virilio claims that it is in cinema that we can locate an ultimate composite sign- – 15 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 59] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture technology that announces the final decomposition of the discrete, rule-bound, and now historical arts of painting, sculpture, and even architecture: Cinema is the end in which the dominant philosophies and arts ha e come to confuse and lose themsel es, a sort of primordial mixing of the human soul and the languages of the motor-soul. The chronology of the arts in history already demonstrates this decomposition.25 Virilio takes these questions further in Lost Dimension, where he writes that what ‘we are living is a system of technological temporality, in which duration and material support have been supplanted as criteria by individual auditory and retinal instants’. He continues: The perspecti al effects of classical ornaments and the cinematic characteristics of certain styles, such as baroque, liberty or neo-liberty, is replaced by an integral cinematism, an absolute transiti ity, in ol ing the complete and thorough decomposition of realty and property. This decomposition is urban, architectural, and territorial. It is based on the deterioration of the ancient primacy of the physical separation and spatial limitation of human acti ities. And this ery deterioration occurs so as to facilitate the interruption and commutation of time – or better, the absence of time – in instantaneous intercommunication.26 Thinking well beyond the parameters of the art world, the ‘decomposition’ envisaged by Virilio is urban, social, and political. Decomposition has become a name for the commutative, even the disappearing, action of time. *** – 16 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 60] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture Notes being reducible to any one of them. It 1. Koons work, in particular, epitomizes the will doubtless become an icon of turn- globalizing carnival that in the last decade of-the-century art’. Whether we agree or has been license to do pantomime and otherwise with the ambitious new zoning minstrelsy in front of major museums or proposed by Bal, the symbolic mutations civic monuments. Puppy began life in of Bourgeois’s spider function in a domain Sydney Australia, was exported for the quite remote from the decorative pastiche opening of the Guggenheim (1997), where of Puppy. it remains, and has also done duty in front 2. Frank Gehry, as cited, most recently by of the Rockefeller Center in New York Sarah Milroy in ‘The Bilbao Effect, Art (May-Aug. 2000) and elsewhere—each versus architecture: Which will win out?’ in of its appearances being accompanied Toronto Globe and Mail, Saturday, January by sustained media hoopla and fanfare. 24, 2004, p. R5. The differences between the origins and 3. Frank Gehry, as cited in Muriel Emanuel implications of the Bourgeois’ spider & Dennis Sharp (eds.), Contemporary is quite striking. Mieke Bal (Louise architects, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1980. 4. This issue alongside its implied double Bourgeois’ Spider: The Architecture of Art-Writing, Chicago: University of and probable other defined much of the Chicago Press, 2001) recently associated discussion at the conference ‘Learning from the work with the latest version of the Guggenheim-Bilbao: Five Years After’, interstitial discursivity – postmodernism’s April 22–24, 2004 at the Nevada Museum reorganization of the paragone, if you of Art, Reno, Nevada, organized by the like. For Bal Maman emblematizes a Center for Basque Studies, University of domain of signification that conjoins not Nevada, Reno. just the sculptural and the architectural but 5. Milroy, ‘The Bilbao Effect’. also the dimensions of theory or critical 6. Ada Louise Huxtable, ‘On Awarding the reflection, historical genre, mythology and Prize’, 1989. http://www.pritzkerprize.com/ biography that might weave them together. gehry.htm The spider, notes, Bal, ‘fits no genre or 7. Frank O. Gehry: Indi idual Images and several: sculpture, installation, architecture. Cultural Conser atism, London: Academy It relates to many currents of twentieth- Editions, 1995, p. 42. century art, especially sculpture, but also 8. Frank Gehry in Mildred S. Friedman, beckons the baroque. Its contents and Michael Sorkin, et al. (eds.), Gehry talks: associations evoke social issues without architecture + process, New York: Rizzoli, – 17 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 61] SYMPOSIUM: John C. WELCHMAN: Architecture :: Sculpture 1999, pp. 38-39. in-America, 2, 2 (February 2000): pp. 84-9 9. Frank O. Gehry: Indi idual Images and 24. New Yorker profile of Richard Serra, Cultural Conser atism, p. 49. August 5th, 2002: ‘Art is purposely useless, 10. ibidem, p. 83. that its significations are symbolic, internal, 11. Charles Jencks, cited in ibidem, p. 65. poetic-a host of other things – whereas 12. Robert Maxwell, cited in ibidem, p. 64. architects have to answer to the program, 13. Frank Gehry, acceptance speech for the the client, and everything that goes along Pritzker Architecture Prize, 1989, http:// with the utility function of the building. www.pritzkerprize.com/gehry.htm] Now we have architects running around 14. ibidem. saying. ‘I’m an artist’, and I just don’t 15. Anthony Caro, Through the Window buy it (…) there are some comparable (March 1991); Edited version of delivered overlaps in the language between sculpture at the Tate Gallery, March 1991, revised and architecture, between painting and June 2001 http://www.anthonycaro.org/ architecture. There are overlaps between ysp1-thru-the-window.htm all kinds of human activities. But there 16. Tim Marlow, ‘Man of Steel’ Cambridge are also differences that have gone on for Alumni Magazine, Lent Term 1997; centuries’. reprinted in http://www.anthonycaro.org/ 25. Paul Virilio, The Aesthetics of Interview-MoS.htm Disappearance, (trans. Philip Beitchman) 17. ibidem. New York: Semiotext(e), 1991, p. 105. 18. Richard Serra, inter iew by Peter Eisenman 26. Paul Virilio, The Lost Dimension, New [first published in Skyline, NY, April 1983, York: Semiotext(e), 1991, pp. 84-85. pp. 14-17], in Richard Serra, Writings and Inter iews, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994, p.p. 145-46. 19. ibidem, p. 146. 20. ibidem, p. 148-49. 21. Alfred Pacquement, ‘Interview by Alfred Pacquement’, in Serra, Writings and Inter iews, p. 162. 22. ibidem. 23. Aruna D’Souza & Tom McDonough, Sculpture in the space of architecture, in Art- – 18 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 62] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle Camiel an Winkel MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 63] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle The museum of contemporary art has increasing difficulty positioning itself within the broader context of today’s culture; more specifically, it seems unable to decide about ways to resolve the uncertainty of its appeal to the public. This uncertainty is a result of the fact that the field in which the museum operates is determined by two conditions that partly counteract one another: the public condition of art and the isual condition of culture. I will return to these conditions, and their inherent tensions, later. First, I will examine the apparent ‘public agenda’ of the museum today. Very high on the list of agenda items is the imperative to get more visitors to the museum. It’s no overstatement to say that museums are obsessed with visitors’ numbers. Elaborate publicity devices are set up to ‘lure’ people. There seem to be no limits to this. And why would there be? The presence of a large audience appears to prove that the museum is performing its public function well. This summer an exhibition of highlights from the collection of the New York MoMA was held in the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin. It attracted 1.2 million visitors over a six months’ period. People were queuing for up to twelve hours. The museum was open every day until midnight. During the last weekend it stayed open non-stop around the clock. In that final weekend 60,000 visitors saw the exhibition. Of course the obsession with visitors’ numbers is all terribly vulgar and banal for anyone seriously interested in art. It’s an excess that seems totally unrelated to our personal experience of works of art. Still I wouldn’t denounce the phenomenon itself as completely irrelevant and meaningless. It reveals something about the importance of visibility in today’s culture, and about the peculiar position of the museum in that cultural context. As a means to boost the interest of the public and to intensify the visibility of the museum, one solution in particular has been privileged: namely, architecture. The last two decades have given us a wave of new museum buildings and museum extensions in Europe and North America, soon to be followed by Asia no doubt. Architecture serves as a prestigious means to generate publicity and to highlight the international importance of museums and their collections. However, the paradox is that by expanding architecturally in order to attract more visitors, the exploitation of the museum (heating, maintenance, personnel etc), becomes more costly, so that the visitors’ numbers have to go up even more, in order to cover all the extra costs. –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 64] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle An interesting example is the new extension to the Van Abbemuseum in Eindhoven. It was opened to the public in January 2003. For financial reasons the Van Abbemuseum will now have to draw twice the amount of visitors that it used to do before the new wing was built. The architecture of the new Van Abbemuseum desperately tries to prove, to demonstrate, the artistic relevance of the architectural discipline. It seeks to show that architecture and visual art still have something in common – that they still can ‘speak’ to one another. The architect has sought to achieve this by designing a building that has the condition of iewing as its theme. The new museum wing emphatically tries to communicate that, just like art, architecture is about looking. That’s the message visitors to the Van Abbemuseum are supposed to take home. To a certain extent the architectural design has been conceived as a double anamorphosis. Only when looked at from a privileged but eccentric point-of-view does the building appear as a coherent and balanced spatial configuration. Everything seems to have been designed in order to be taken in from that specific vantage point. This applies both to the interior and to the exterior space When you walk around the exterior of the building, it is not until you’re facing the backside that the various building blocks assume their proper picturesque arrangement: with on the left hand side the restaurant and the offices, on the right the big cubist chunk of exhibition space, and in the middle a low glass corridor; everything arranged around the shallow pond that acts as a kind of reflective centrepiece. A similar effect of anamorphosis can be noted in the building’s interior. The new exhibition spaces – ground floor, three floors plus basement – form an intricate threedimensional compilation of balconies, platforms, balustrades, corridors, stairways, landings, and bridges, laid out around a central atrium. A visitor climbing the stairs, spiralling upwards round the atrium, will not perceive the organisational order of this jumbled space until he or she has reached the top level and looks down. It’s only then that all the erratic shapes line up in perspective, and a carefully staged architectural cascade materialises. With its many vista’s, pierced walls, lookouts and opportunities for viewing, the architecture of the new Van Abbemuseum incorporates the quest for the ideal viewpoint. What’s more, visitors are being made to enact or perform that quest. Again and again you see people sticking their heads through openings, bending –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 65] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle their bodies over balustrades and looking up or down into the atrium. Bay windows penetrate the outer wall of the building, seducing the visitor with a view on the surrounding park or the river that runs through it. When you approach the building from a distance, you already notice people inside looking out. It may seem obvious – as the architect of the Van Abbemuseum believes – that museums are places for looking, for viewing. The best museums must surely be those with the best conditions for viewing. But even if viewing is a central notion in the disourse of modern and contemporary art, the question remains: what is a ‘viewer’? Who is the viewer? Are all museum visitors viewers? Are all viewers museum visitors? The hunt for more and more visitors could easily make us forget that ‘the viewer’ is not a natural given at all. The viewer is primarily an idea, evoked in the process of thinking and writing about the experience of art. It is a theoretical construct, and quite an enigmatic one; a phenomenological abstraction; a role in an elaborate fiction or screenplay. The viewer is the main protagonist in a lot of writing about art. In exhibition reviews or essays, works of art often are being considered through their mental or bodily effects on an unidentified subject called ‘the viewer’. To a certain extent, writers and critics use the viewer to objectify their own observations, to achieve apparent neutrality that allows any reader to empathise. But there is also a more profound dimension in this recurring figure, a dimension hidden in the deeper strata of social and cultural conventions. A brilliant evocation of the figure of ‘the viewer’, and of our ambivalent relation to it, can be found in Brian O’Doherty’s Inside the White Cube. Just like the white cube itself, the viewer, O’Doherty argues, is a modern invention, an creation that came to us in the wake of modernism: As we mo e around that [gallery] space, looking at the walls, a oiding things on the floor, we become aware that that gallery also contains a wandering phantom frequently mentioned in a ant-garde dispatches – the Spectator. Who is this Spectator? Also called the Viewer. Sometimes the Obser er, occasionally the Percei er. It has no face, is mostly a back. It stops and peers, is slightly clumsy. Its attitude is inquiring, its puzzlement discreet. He – I’m sure he is more male than female – arri ed with modernism, with the disappearance of –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 66] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle perspecti e. He seems born out of the picture and, like some perceptual Adam, is drawn back repeatedly to contemplate it. The Spectator seems a little dumb; he is not you or me. Always on call, he staggers into place before e ery new work that requires his presence. This obliging stand-in is ready to enact our fanciest speculations. He tests them patiently and does not resent that we pro ide him with directions and responses: “the iewer feels...”; “the obser er notices...”; “the spectator mo es...”. He is sensiti e to effects (...) and smells out ambiguities like a bloodhound (...). He not only stands and sits on command; he lies down and e en crawls as modernism presses on him his final indignities. Plunged into darkness, depri ed of perceptual clues, blasted by strobes, he frequently watches his own image chopped up and recycled by a ariety of media. Art conjugates him, but he is a sluggish erb, eager to carry the weight of meaning, but not always up to it. He balances, he tests, he is mystified, demystified. In time, the Spectator stumbles around between confusing roles: he is a cluster of motor reflexes, a dark-adapted wanderer, the i ant in a tableau, an actor manqué, e en a trigger of sound and light in a space land-mined for art. He may e en be told that he himself is an artist, and be persuaded that his contribution to what he obser es or trips o er is its authentic signature.1 O’Doherty’s comes up with an enlightening description of the viewer as an ‘obliging stand-in’ – always willing to subject himself to whatever treatment the artist has had in mind He rightly assumes that the viewer is not a natural phenomenon which has always been around, but that it is a convention, a cultural construct somehow related to modernism. The crucial qualification of the conditions of viewing can be summed up in a short and simple sentence: the iewer is ne er at home. Ingrained in the notion of the viewer is the awareness that one is never on one’s own, in a private situation, when getting acquainted with new works of art, but always in the company of others – in the company of strangers. The viewer is a persona who perpetually wanders through the institutional space of art museums and galleries. His awkward movements, his hesitant, self-conscious behaviour vis-à-vis the art works that he is confronted with and vis-à-vis the other viewers that share his space, all point to the same conclusion: the viewer is not a private individual but the counterpart of a public realm or public environment. The viewer is the embodiment of the public condition of art. –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 67] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle This public condition of art implies that ‘publicness’ is a necessary circumstance for the production and reception of any specimen of visual art. It implies that in principle all artists work for the museum, whether they want to or not, the museum being the culmination of the domain in which the public examination and legitimization of what counts as a work of art necessarily take place. Ever since the sixties, with Minimal and Postminimal Art, artists have taken into account the notion of the viewer as a public persona. For Minimal artists like Donald Judd and Robert Morris, ‘publicness’ still implied a deliberate choice: some art was in accordance with this new criterion, while other art wasn’t. Without this duality Minimal Art would never have had its polemical and historical impact. However, since that period the public condition of art has gradually become an unavoidable given. Visual art now is a separate and specialised cultural sector that is mainly focused inward. In this universe works of art derive a great deal of their relevance from their relation to other works and to the texts, concepts and theories that together comprise the art discourse. There no longer seems to be a ground for a fundamental discrimination between art and reflections about art. Every work of art implies a statement about the legitimization of art production, even in cases when the artist in question is totally unaware of that. Essentially both art and reflections about art use ‘publicness’ as their medium; no work of art can come into existence without this aspect of ‘publication’. Nobody knows any longer what a work of art should look like or how it is to be distinguished from other objects and processes. As a result, a work of art can only be recognised as such if and when it manifests itself within the discursive domain of art, the domain in which visual art in general continuously seeks to produce justifications for itself and of itself. So today the public condition is still an unavoidable and necessary condition for every specimen of visual art. The notion of the viewer as a public persona is a crucial prerequisite for the entire production of visual art. This public condition is now something totally obvious and unremarkable. The condition that in 1965 triggered the most radical insights has nowadays expanded and settled down to become the ultimate convention. The social vacuum in which contemporary artists necessarily operate, has resulted from the fatal succession of two historical events: first the disappearance of that private figure called ‘the client’, then the conventionalisation of that public figure called ‘the viewer’.2 –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 68] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle The field in which the museum operates is not only determined by the public condition of art, but, as I stated before, by the regime of isibility as well. Given the extremely visual orientation of the culture in which we live today, one would expect the museum of contemporary art to be a highly regarded, well-respected and prominent institution. But in truth the situation is a bit more complicated. What does it mean when we say that today’s culture is a visual culture? Is it true that in our everyday life we are being engulfed and overwhelmed by an increasing excess of images and other visual material? My suggestion is that it may be fruitful to think about it in slightly different terms: life among visual media is characterised not by an excess but rather by a shortage of images. There are simply not enough of them. There is a permanent pressure to visualise practices and processes that originally do not belong to the realm of the visual. Images in themselves are less powerful than this imperative to visualise. The shortage of images has created a dynamics of its own, closely affiliated to the economic principle of permanent expansion and growth. Everywhere, from art and commerce to fashion and lifestyle, it is now a common notion that, in order to be successful, one has to make oneself and one’s activities visible and recognisable. Success equals visibility and visibility equals success. Whoever refuses to subscribe to this logic, is bound to fail in the rat-race of the market economy. What’s invisible, simply does not exist. The regime of visiblity is more than a dictate issued by the mass media. The individuals, institutions and practices that are afflicted by it, are actively contributing to it as well. The regime of visibility permeates all levels of culture and society, from centre to margin, from high to low. The most diverse forms of cultural production have been reduced to a number of visually mediatable aspects. Self-awareness, linked to the notion that one is different from the rest of the world, has to be expressed in a clear and visible form, otherwise it doesn’t ‘work’. In a world that we consider to be excessively visualised, over-visualised, the visual has obtained a double meaning. This ambivalence results from two cultural dimensions that do not add up very well. The visual has two very different sets of connotations. On the one hand, the visual is the domain of the gaze. The visual is the aspect of the world that triggers you to loose yourself in it. It functions by way of immersion. Your gaze is sucked in by a scene, a scene that doesn’t even need to be spectacular. –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 69] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle You are hypnotised; your body gets all limp and paralysed, or on the contrary, all stiff and cramped. The visual has the power to push your consciousness through a narrow slot; at that point it stops being your consciousness; instead it becomes just a mindless imprint of the object world. To gaze into a fire, or out of a train window, or at a computer screen, causes the space of experience to flatten and close like an envelope, the content of which is always somewhere else. But if the visual is the domain of mindless immersion, on the other hand, strangely enough, we tend to associate visuality with distance, detachment and control; with reflection and reflexivity. Sight is connected to insight; view is related to overview. We speak of both ‘the gaze of the master’ and ‘the mastery of the gaze’. This second dimension of visuality, completely opposed to the first, has been theorised among others by such authors as Marshall McLuhan and Jean Baudrillard. For McLuhan, the spatio-geometric formula of the ‘point-of-view’ is related to the era of mechanisation. It is characterised by remote perception; linear thinking; rationalisation and fragmentation; chains of cause and effect; expansion from centre to margin; and the cutting up of complex processes into sequences of singular steps. The shift from this universe of mechanisation to a global village based on electronic information technology, which McLuhan saw happening, would once and for all end the dominance of the optical model of a ‘point-of-view’. In his book Understanding Media (1964) he wrote: ‘Fragmented, literate and isual individualism is not possible in an electrically patterned and imploded society’.3 Both McLuhan and Baudrillard anticipated a world that has moved beyond the visual, a world in which the distance between observer and observed object shrinks and is reduced to zero by the electronic extensions of the human nervous system; an imploded world in which visual perception is transformed into skin-to-skin contact, and tactile communication reigns supreme. In 1976 Baudrillard proclaimed the end of the gaze and the end of spectacle. All technological and biological interfaces would cling together and give rise to the hyperreality of an integrated and aestheticised environment: A whole imagery based on contact, a sensory mimicry and a tactile mysticism, basically ecology in its entirety, comes to be grafted onto this uni erse of operational simulation, multi-stimulation and multi-response. [...] No more scenes, no more cuts, no more “gaze”, the end of the spectacle and the spectacular, –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 70] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle towards the total, fusional, tactile and aesthetic [...] en ironment. [...] The old illusions of relief, perspecti e and depth (both spatial and psychological) bound up with the perception of the object are o er with: optics in its entirety, scopics, has begun to operate on the surface of things – the gaze has become the object’s molecular code. 4 So, whereas you can link the visual to a loss of distance and reflection, McLuhan and Baudrillard demonstrate that it can also be related to detachment and reflectivity. The contradiction between these two dimensions of the visual – on the one hand, mindless immersion, on the other hand, detached reflection – is more than just a theoretical issue. The phenomenology of everyday life is characterised both by the total immersion in stimulating environments and by a gradual loss of experience and disconnection from what is felt to be the real. Each of these phenomena seems to contradict the other, yet both are equally ‘true’. The psychopathology of contemporary society is marked by an apparently random oscillation between moments of immense synaesthetic euphoria and moments of total numbness and dissociation. What’s the most troubling about that is the absence of an overall logic that could explain and ultimately eradicate the contradiction. Individual and collective eruptions of emotion occur as isolated incidents. The lack of structure only enhances the intensity of these fragments. Any sensation is felt to be an absolute sensation. Perhaps all this can be related to a peculiar characteristic of what I’ve been calling the regime of visibility. The regime of visibility is in a strange way different from what Christian Metz and Martin Jay have called ‘the empire of the gaze’ or ‘the scopic regime’, in the sense that it’s no longer about looking at all.5 It’s about being-looked-at, but it’s not about looking. Something is being looked at, that’s for sure, but there is no way to decide who is doing the looking. There no longer seems to be anyone occupying the subject position of the viewer. Visibility has turned into a quantity, an economic measure that can only be verified with statistical means such as polls, market research, and viewer’s numbers. The classical duality between an active component of looking and a passive component of beinglooked-at, has disappeared. To be looked at, to be seen, has taken over the central position of looking and seeing, and has partly absorbed connotations of activity and domination. In that sense Baudrillard could have been right when he talked about the end of the spectacle. –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 71] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle What consequences does this have for the position of the viewer, the ‘wandering phantom’ that inhabits the sparsely furnished rooms of our museums? Once we have reached the conclusion that there is nobody left to occupy the subject position of the viewer, what does that mean for the museum? Can it be that the uncertainty museums experience in defining their appeal to the public, is in some way related to this? I think it is. It could be the real problem underlying the obsession with visitor’s numbers. No matter how cramped the museum rooms actually are, no matter how many busloads of schoolchildren or tourists are being stuffed inside, there always remains a sensation of emptiness, a sensation of things disappearing. The museum public is characterised by a peculiar absence or displacement, a form of beingthere-while-not-being-there. No matter how full the rooms actually are, at a metalevel they always appear to be void. Financial reasons aside, this may explain why museums continue their efforts to lure more people in. Museums consider themselves as places where one learns to look, places for viewing, for looking at art, places where the viewing of objects is facilitated and celebrated. Yet today’s culture, ruled by what I consider to be a regime of visibility, is no longer about looking. It’s about being-looked-at. This makes clear all the more to what extent the figure that we refer to as ‘the viewer’, this figure that we tend to invoke whenever we speak about art, is really a phantasmic figure. On some fundamental, unconscious level, we find it hard to believe that the work of art really addresses us. Surely the work of art is not meant for us, but for some unknown ‘other’. We believe in art through this figure of an imaginary viewer, a slightly naïve figure that is totally open and receptive to the artistic experience. When we speak about the civilising effect that art can have on people, is it ourselves that we think of? No, not really. We think of the other, the unidentified, paradigmatic viewer who still lacks something – who is in need of something we already possess: a certain awareness or enlightened consciousness. Then again, we also imagine this viewer as someone not burdened by all the excess knowledge and information that we carry with us and supposedly robs our art experience of a great deal of its spontaneity. Our belief in art has been relayed to ‘the viewer’, who believes on behalf of us. The work of art does not affect us directly, but through this replacement viewer that we imagine is standing in front of the work. Only through that phantasmic figure is it – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 72] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle possible for us to continue believing in art. We have no desire for art, yet we believe in the viewer who needs art more than we do, as if his life depended on it. This is the problem that the museum of contemporary art faces today. It has run out of arguments to convince us of the need to come and visit and look at the works ourselves. It’s enough for us to know that the works are being kept in the museum, that whenever we want, we can go there and see them. We don’t really need to go ourselves. There’s no urgency. Perhaps in response to this situation, the institutional field has started a collective ideological attack on the notion of ‘the viewer’ as a generalised, abstract persona with a blank identity. Fed by the ideology of pluralism that dominates the cultural and academic scene today, a broad range of specialists – from art theory to museum practice to politics and beyond – now seems to agree that there no longer is a general public. To regard the art audience as an abstract and neutral entity is considered both dangerous and passé. Many cherish the thought that the audience is made up of a heterogeneous collection of smaller groups – minority groups that each have their own social, cultural, ethnic or sexual identity. There seems to be a consensus that any institution disregarding this range of backgrounds and histories and failing to take into account the various interests and expectations of these specific groups, is not only guilty of discrimination, but also misses major opportunities for contact and communication. Thus the empty subject position of ‘the viewer’ is rejected; or better, it is no longer perceived as empty. The viewer is turned again into an individual, particular human being. The singular figure of the viewer is replaced by a multiplicity of ‘viewers’. It is no coincidence that the ’1990s have witnessed many well-publicised attempts by artists and curators to get into a closer and more intimate contact with their audience. We have witnessed projects and exhibitions that aimed at an intensification of the art experience – a more personal interaction between producer and receiver. A typical work in this genre would consist of a process, the content of which is reduced to an act of communication about the process itself. Artists take their audience by the hand and ‘service’ them, leading them gently into the utopian space of a nonintimidating creative environment. The artists in question have often promoted their projects with an anti-institutional rhetoric. Yet what they do is unmistakably very similar to what museums and institutions do, that apply refined marketing tools in order to identify and target – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 73] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle their audiences. In a way artists mimic museums and art institutions in their efforts to market their work and to address an individualised audience as their target group. This may seem perfectly innocent and sympathetic, yet the hidden assumptions and premises should be uncovered and criticised. Whoever claims that the art audience can be identified and targeted, implies that the individual need for art can be directly inferred from the social or cultural ‘niche’ the individual belongs to. This assumption is even more hegemonic and patronising than the supposedly ‘unitary’ model it aims to replace. It implies that the human subject is identical to the sum of its apparent characteristics. When you’re a single black mother from a poor neighbourhood, we know for sure that you won’t like abstract painting.... To describe the audience as a diverse range of minority groups, as a kind of ‘rainbow coalition’, is to imply that the individual subjectivity consists of a number of fixed ingredients that, firstly, never change and that, secondly, can always be known. The 20th century avant-garde has always refused to identify its audience in advance. Identifying one’s audience in advance would amount to signing a ‘social contract’ intended to make the undefined and evasive status of the work of art acceptable for administrative institutions with their instrumental logic. Even if we tried, we could not get rid of the phantasmic figure of ‘the viewer’. I don’t think we will be able to transgress the cultural conditioning of the museum and convince ourselves that the museum exists for us, rather than for some unidentified other. This predicament, however, is not necessarily a bad thing. In a way, despite everything, you could say that this is what makes the museum of contemporary art still valuable and relevant today. Aesthetic experiences can be had everywhere; but only in museums do we have an aesthetic experience while at the same time feeling unable to fully identify with the subject of that experience. We don’t really feel addressed by the artworks in the museum. Instead we feel that some absent viewer is addressed that will take our place as soon as we have left the room. In the museum context, works of art represent models of public address that might have worked in the past or that might work in the future. The fact that we don’t feel addressed directly allows us to reflect on whatever it is that connects us to our material surroundings. The museum of contemporary art is not the only place for art, nor the most ideal – 12 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 74] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle place; it’s certainly not the most natural or neutral environment for works of art. That much has become clear in one hundred fifty years of institutional critique. Yet museums should be considered places where the art, if nothing else, can reflect on its own conditions and parameters. Not in a modernist fashion, by investigating its medium, but rather by investigating the absence of a medium, or the ‘pastness’ of the discipline of art. Where it can reflect on the arbitrary and conventional nature of our convictions as to what defines a work of art. The decontextualised, decontextualising aspect of what we have once started calling ‘the art context’. The museum is the only place where this indeterminate state clearly contaminates the apparatus of filters, screens, labels, and containers that we need in order to ‘see’ the art in the first place. It’s also the only place where this indeterminate state contaminates us, the public, the audience, whoever that may be – anyone who volunteers to play the role of the viewer, while never fully blending with that role. *** – 13 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 75] SYMPOSIUM: Camiel VAN WINKEL: The Viewer Is Never at Home. Museum Culture after the End of Spectacle Notes 1. Brian O’Doherty, Inside the White Cube. The Ideology of the Gallery Space, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1999, pp. 39-41. 2. Cf. Camiel van Winkel, Moderne leegte. Over kunst en openbaarheid, Nijmegen: SUN, 1999. 3. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media. The Extensions of Man, London/New York: Routledge, 2002, 1964, p. 56. 4. Jean Baudrillard, Symbolic Exchange and Death, London/Thousand Oaks/New Delhi: Sage, 1993, pp. 71-72. 5. Christian Metz, Le signifiant imaginaire. Psychanalyse et cinéma, Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 1977 ; Martin Jay, ‘Scopic Regimes of Modernity’, in: Hal Foster (ed.), Vision and Visuality, Discussions in Contemporary Culture 2, Seattle: Bay Press, 1988, pp. 3-23. –14 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 76] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: The Museum: Dreams of a Mobile Architecture SEMINAR SESSION 1: The Museum: Dreams of a Mobile Architecture MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 77] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: The Museum: Dreams of a Mobile Architecture The Museum: Dreams of a Mobile Architecture CALL FOR PAPERS This session will explore the many ways in which the museum advocates architecture as the medium to overcome its identity crisis. Briefly considering the metaphors used by museums to question their status reveals an architectural bias, and by consequence the spatial nature of the crisis: if the museum of contemporary art wants to transform itself from a static repository into a dynamic workshop, it has to tear down its walls, open up its space, leave the premises, push back its frontiers. Consequently, with every museum building enterprise – whether an extension, an additional wing or a brand-new building – museum directors explicitly express the ambition to tackle the ‘institutional’ space as well. Continually, architecture is used as a vehicle to fundamentally rethink the museum on both a micro and a macro level – not only the commissioning institution itself, but the entire concept of ‘the museum’ as well. Architecture is capable – or so we are made to believe – of extending the museum’s boundaries in both the literal and figurative sense of the word. Is it not true, as Cedric Price once stated, that architecture is too slow to make experiments materialise, too slow to solve problems? When the typologies of the future take actual form, the future has long overtaken architecture. This session invites contributions that address the problematic task of architecture in the museum. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 78] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble Walking into Trouble Andrea Phillips MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 79] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble In this paper l’d like to consider the development of uses of mobility in contemporary curating in which artworks that either move, ask their viewer to move or present the traces of physical movement are commissioned. I want to suggest some reasons why this commissioning process has become common practice in a variety of institutional frameworks, and what it might stand (in) for. I also want to suggest that what is desired by the museum – an ontologically improbable and politically questionable sense of fluidity and transition into the social – can be countered by an alternative ethics of mobility, in which travel and its related rhetoric are not seen as ways to smooth out a process of institutional, interdisciplinary socialisation but instead as, to paraphrase Duchamp, ‘standard stoppages’ that demonstrate the contingency and resistance of people carrying out actions in a place. In order to do this I am going to examine a particular set of works commissioned for the grounds of a neo-classical stately home in the UK, Compton Verney, which has a permanent collection of work on view and, in recent years, has developed an annual contemporary commissioning policy. Over a number of years I have been gathering information on artworks that are either produced or experienced by walking, sometimes both, and been thinking about how such works are translated, sometimes in a contradictory fashion, into wider paradigms of travel, movement and social access in contemporary culture. Most but not all of these works have at some point been described as ‘public art’. Some take place in the countryside (like the ones I will describe at Compton Verney); most take place in or on the outskirts of cities. Many of the works are seen principally not as live actions ‘in the field’ or ‘on the street’ (to bring in two sites of ethnographic activity that have provided for an amount of contemporary art-theoretical fetishisation), but as documentary evidence, graphically rearranged, modelled and displayed in the gallery or studio. All return images of mobility to the gallery or museum in one form or another. All, intentionally or not, draw in ancient and modem mythologies of walking – from pilgrimages and diasporas to flâneurisms and dérives – as part of their effect. And all, it would seem, ask pertinent questions about the relationship between everyday movement and its artistic and architectural reincarnation as emblematic of accessible sodality. My work is about walking but it is part of a more general inquiry into the use and abuse of movement as a trope of artistic and architectural thought. On the one hand, in an important debate about subjectivity and citizenship, fluid movement can –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 80] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble be seen to open up individual experience to new and different ways of perceiving and designing the world – offering subjectivities that can shift and sway according to their context. On the other, a more pedestrian understanding of movement can be seen to inhibit the impulse to think in such fluid terms; to accept the criticality of the tentative, the hesitant, the speculative and contingent aspects of pedestrianism, and to see in it a form of protest against the streamlining and de-differentiating, or smoothing out of cultural production. Whilst previous practices might suggest otherwise, this contingent aspect of walking – and its institutionalization as the production of walked space – suggests a potential development in contemporary curatorial activity within the museum. Desires for the museum to move need to be seen as philosophical dream states. More so, such ideas should be connected firmly to the socio-political context from which they spring. Artists are either co-opted by the institution to play along with a narrative of sociality, participation and access through the creation of seemingly ‘democratic’ methods and forms such as walks, tours, performances and demonstrations. Or, occasionally, as I hope to show, they demonstrate the political contingency of such dreams, as they propose difficult journeys and strategic lines of flight that, consciously or not, counter smooth assumptions about the nature of social space. Compton Verney is a stately home, just off the M40 in Warwickshire, ‘Shakespeare Country’, site of the most ferocious seventeenth century civil war battles, and an area of the UK that forms an iconic image of Englishness – here is the green and pleasant land, here is Albion. The house is the location of the Peter Moores Foundation collections, which consists of sixteenth century European and ancient Asian art and eighteenth century British folk art (a collection formed with debt to colonies near and far). The house, seat of the Verneys recorded in the Domesday Book, was rebuilt by Robert Adam in 1780 upon the commission of the fourteenth Lord Willoughby de Broke, a title earned by the Verneys through their assiduous loyalist support during the civil war. With grounds designed by Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown, the house sits surrounded by two huge manufactured lakes. Inside the house, the serene architectural facade gives way to equally tranquil exhibition spaces in which eighteenth century witch’s dolls, early Zhou Dynasty masterpieces and gems from the seventeenth century Neapolitan court, are cautiously divided. A contemporary art gallery has a revolving exhibition schedule. Sculptural works are commissioned –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 81] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble for the grounds that range from the monolithic (a John Frankland boulder) to the ironic and impermanent (a life-size inflatable airplane by Alexandra Mir; a series of large-scale mown grass drawings by Anya Gallacio; a series of coloured smoke plumes by Simon Patterson, Bob & Roberta Smith’s Mobile Reality Creator). The audience for events and exhibitions at Compton Verney is drawn predominantly from commuter towns in the area. Closer villages, whose inhabitants shift to adjust to ongoing downscaling in farming production, visit less often. The difference between these diverse communities is marked in their various attitudes to the stately home. Just as the Verneys distributed their sovereign claim across the landscape in the eighteenth century, so the contemporary museum adopts an air of philanthropic patronage towards those that service its boundaries. Whilst the buildings were closed for refurbishment in 2003, the Peter Moores Foundation commissioned four artists to develop walks inspired by the local environment, including the grounds, as well as these outlying communities. The commissions were a result of a difficult artist-Ied consultation process in 2002, of which I was a part. The assignments, that were intended to draw in local audiences, as well as to maintain a presence within the art world whilst the galleries were shut, were ambiguous from the start. Artists’ responses acknowledged this ambivalence. But Compton Verney, with a complex set of its own institutional disenfranchisements (for example, a high turn-over of curators with no real control over programme), did not know what to do with, and seemed to a certain extent confused by, this product. The fantasy of countryside walking is often that which Raymond Williams would have called seigniorial, a fantasy that is for the most of us based on a falsely inherited notion of purchase. Our fantasy is complex for it exists only as a result of a series of annihilations - of the labour and laboriousness of the construction of the image of the countryside, of the heterogeneity of the population that must be hidden in order to enable an unspoilt panorama, of political, social and environmental incompatibilities that might rupture an otherwise seamless view. What started for the Directors of Compton Verney as an unusual idea for some off-site commissions which might access a ‘more diverse audience’ quickly backfired in the hands of artists. This particular and literal idea of making the museum seem mobile by asking artists and audiences to walk around it began to demonstrate the absolute lack of conceptual, political, aesthetic mobility inherent in the idea. –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 82] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble Graham Parker offered a simple solution to the burden of history he felt meted out to him in the commission by suggesting the estate was refashioned, just as was already being carried out in the house and grounds with scrupulous attention to the detail of the original Adam and Brown design. But rather than authenticate an already constructed notion of that which calls on more traditional methods of trompe l’oeil – Brown was most famous for his trickery; foreshortening, extending and deleting ugly aspects of a particular view – Parker suggested that we imagine, for a day, that the estate was remodeled as a golf course (Line and Length, 2003). This idea resonated in a familiar way, not only because so much of interstitial land in middle England has been made into golf courses, but also because the poetics of the make-over, the quick cartographical, architectural, design-led fix reverberate via TV. Parker, working with a golf design firm, produced a map that indicated exactly how the eighteen-hole course ‘master-plan’ might work. On one Sunday in May, eighteen flags and tees were placed on the route and the public was invited to walk it. Instead of playing, people were asked to imagine a landscape that the artist perceived would be equally as legislative as Capability Brown’s. The plan demonstrated the conceit of a hierarchy of perceptions of natural or correct ways of using the landscape related to contemporary taste. It also showed up landscape’s mutability – usability – as responsive to late capitalist requirements for flexibility – and mobility – within the market place. Far from static in its privileges of ownership, the countryside has always been up for sale (as the history of the Verney family in this area of Warwickshire amply demonstrates). Within this pastiche of profitable, nou eau-riche or immigrant design (depending on your point of view), Compton Verney acquired another, and viable, use value. The taste trespass of Parker’s proposed golf course makes us all into invaders, as new modes of social performance take over from old ones. The flying ball has its way, just as the gun, the hound and the beater, continue to do in another sporting tradition. To imagine the landscape as a large arena for sporting pleasure is to imagine a landscape for sale, for accrual. Contemporary landscape revisionists would have such land up for grabs, sold as pockets of the picturesque in the name of meritocratic access. Compton Verney, literally brought back from destitution in the 1970s, demonstrates a benign and philanthropic consent by opening its grounds to all sorts of walkers, most of who would have been chased off the land a hundred years ago. The nineteenth century poet and country dandy Leslie Stephens named –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 83] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble this ‘judicious trespass’: those that have time, trespass judiciously, those that don’t, trespass because they have to in order to survive.1 An altogether more obstinate demonstration-by-trespass has a long British history, starting with the walking clubs and fresh air societies set up by young men and women on their return from grand tours of Europe in the late eighteenth century and continued in a more radical vein by increasingly militant rambling clubs, particularly in the Midlands and the North of England. Here, the leisured pursuit of a new, healthier and more poetic ‘senses of self’ through walking was opened out to a call for rights of way for everyone, not just the rich. The famous mass trespass on Kinder Scout in 1932 (which was repeated in 1982 as if to show how little had really changed) was organised to protest at how little British upland was available for men and women to walk. In 1939 an access to land bill lobbied for by influential Labour Party ramblers and MPs was diverted at the last moment from a move to allow the right to walk on uncultivated, though privately owned, mountain and moorland to what was deemed a ‘landowner’s protection bill’ through the simple act of adding a clause which made trespass into an offence punishable through the court system. The ensuing demonstrations resulted in violent clashes between ramblers and police. The act of walking became a most effective propaganda tool in which the exhibition of trespass in order to encourage its inverse, right of way, was extremely effective. Representing Austria at the Venice Biennale in 1993 Christian Philip Muller posed as an alpine hiker and surreptitiously crossed the border of Austria into eight neighbouring countries. From the photographs that the artist took of these border crossings, the motility and insecurity of any boundary that cuts one part of a landscape away from its neighbour becomes comically clear. Occasionally the artist is seen leaping across a stream or a road but more often than not there is no mark to show a point of transgression. Whilst much of the project involved a conceptual game of cat and mouse with Austrian officialdom intended to illustrate the ridiculousness of border defense at a time of shifting national allegiances across southern Europe, another and more disturbing aspect of the project came about as the artist and his assistant were seized in the newly formed Czech Republic and forbidden to re-enter the state for three years, an event that immediately recast the humour of the piece into a harrowing creation of the circumstances of thousands of illegal immigrants and asylum-seekers. At this point, Muller says with some irony, he ‘experienced the difference between the border as an artistic concept and a political reality’.2 –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 84] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble The relationship between the idealised landscape and its more prosaic and often inequitable reality was the subject of Ben Sadler’ s Compton Verney commission. Sadler produced a CD by a band called Circa ’88, who were formed during the artist’s collaboration with Kineton High School, a village local to the estate. Circa ’88 sang songs with titles like ‘The Chipshop’, ‘The Church’, ‘The Bridge’ and ‘The Pub’, articulating the intimacy and, for teenagers as for others, confinement of idealised village life; the lyrics mixed social familiarity and teenage melancholy with deadpan humour. Music offers dreams of escape, masking the overlooked but intensely experienced prospects of rural communities whose public transport is virtually non-existent and whose job prospects are poor. Sadler says in the sleeve notes of the CD, ‘The music on this CD is entirely by Circa ’88. I could not have written these songs. I’m glad that Circa ‘88 still can’, suggesting that age, or a move into a different world, dwindles our experience of the intensities of feeling expressed here. The lyrics propose a type of knowing naivety reflective of a critical moment in which a group of young people offer ambivalent words about their locality, their landmarks. Walking this circuit, in a fetishistically pretty English village, might be heart-wrenching, frustrating or mindlessly boring if you grow up there. Local politicians, best characterised as a conduit between the small scale and the national, but as often as not the compromised messengers of party lines, have played a pivotal role in the development of the countryside and the way it is perceived. Jacqueline Donachie took up the image of paternal ancestral stewardship and its connection to local and national politics in the organisation of her Compton Verney commission. The Gre ille Verney Walk was performed for the first time in April 2002, following a route from the village of Combroke to the Compton Verney estate. Donachie, mainly interested in the photographic potential of the event, theatricalised the walk by creating a banner at its head and hiring a Gaelic marching band to play along the route. A local amateur dramatic society turned out in Victorian costume to walk, as did several women on horseback riding in dressage. The dramatic denouement of the event, along with its implied politics, was influenced by the artist’ s own experience as a Glaswegian of the Orange marching season. Greville Verney, to whom the walk was dedicated, was the last member of the Verneys to live on the Warwickshire estate. An active Tory peer, MP for Rugby from 1895 to 1900, Verney was as the holder of an inherited seat in the House of –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 85] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble Lords, a fervent anti-Parliamentarian. He supported the Union of Great Britain and Ireland (hence Donachie’s choice of a Gaelic band from Birmingham to accompany the walk). His distinctly patrician royalist sympathies, echoing round a part of the British countryside still defined as a bloody battleground of the English Civil War, are clearly not at odds with many contemporary local allegiances and debates. By asking us to waIk under his banner, Donachie reminded her audience of the competing politics of the countryside, where a gentle stroll in the spring sunshine may not be so innocently routed or perceived by others. Her photographs too turned our straggling mass into a carefully orchestrated rally. They had the effect, as all good propaganda images do, of transforming the thirty or so members of the public that turned up to the event, few of who knew each other through social or political circles, into a cohesive and directional mass. So, the artist returns her participants to the possibility of their own complicity within the seigniorial activity of Compton Verney and its commissioning programme. The contemporary art museum, housed in a stately home, sees the effect of mobility – of mobile art commissioning – as a strategic mask for its distinctly static value system. Anne Wallace recounts how, by the mid-eighteenth century, only the very poorest or the most eccentric walked and gender and class divisions between walkers had become firmly established. At the same time, the development of the link between leisured walking and social and moral well-being, most dramatically epitomised in the romantic poetry of Wordsworth, disassociated the poetic product of the pedestrian from its more mundane association with social and spatial production within the market place. Wallace implies that this cleaning up of walking insulates the activity from its more seditious associations and creates a hierarchy in which walking, unless in the act of trespass, developed a confining power that kept people in their place ‘both literally and figuratively’.3 Still, for the underfed factory worker of the nineteenth century, or for the struggling asylum seeker of the twenty-first century, trespass might be the only option. Thus walking was, and still is, a demonstration of the contingency and instability of rights of way, where ethics and aesthetics meet uncomfortably and unevenly on a landscape determined predominantly by the movements of fiscal power. Thus mobility is crossed and recrossed with uneasy alliances between power, desire and possibility. The dream of mobility is a gentrified one, played out across contemporary philosophy, whilst the ability to really move is far more pedestrian. –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 86] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble To trespass, from the old French, means to pass through, an etymology that has no negative alliance with lawbreaking. In this sense we might be said to trespass on a daily basis, and not simply physically. Passing through places, languages, atmospheres, ideas, we may not do damage, we may not propose change, but we will always affect those places. Artists are often portrayed as people that ‘pass through’ – arriving at a place, gathering knowledge, making work and then leaving, epitomises a self-fulfilling image of the avant-garde. It is no coincidence that the quizzical and alienated outlook of the works made for Compton Verney are invented by artists arriving at the rural from the urban, trying to make sense of a landscape that they do not (and perhaps do not wish to) inhabit. Their passing through, their ideas and images laid onto and over, propose an art of walking that admits to the difficulty of their reception, as dream images of the mobile, on the Compton Verney estate. The final Compton Verney commission suggests the translation of a piece of music from one cultural locale to another and, in doing so, opens up a space in which we might think about what it means to trespass in a place that might seem to be historically and geographically stable but is in actual fact changing all the time. Working with a group of local bell-ringers, Matthew Thompson organised a performance of John Cage’s 4’ 33” at St Peter’s Church in Radway, another village on the borders of the Compton Verney estate. Originally performed on piano, though open to interpretation on any set of instruments, Cage’s short composition has three movements all of which are silent. The beginning and end of each movement is indicated by ‘some simple, non-obtrusive action’ agreed upon and rehearsed by the performers. Radway Bell Ringers interpreted this instruction by tying and untying their bell ropes (a loose knot being the conventional position of rest, a hanging rope signalling a bell being ready to ring). 4’ 33” (1952) is generally considered to be a work that sets up the conditions for an audience to pay attention to ambient sound - to the music, in other words, of everyday life. Thompson chose to rework the piece as his response to a commission to make a walk, so pulling together a series of concerns about the ‘traditional’ landscape and its relation with the conceptual languages of modernity. The work illustrated both obvious disjunctions and the potential conditions of conjunction, as its audience (those local, and those up from London for the event) met in silence in a small church. The work was not about walking at all, but instead brought people together through a series of diffuse interests and alliances. It was about differences, –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 87] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble made more articulate by stasis. Reminiscent of Paul Carter’s theory of agoraphobia as a radical rupture from the repression of modernism’s continuous impositions of fluidity (both architecturally and psychologically), this rendition of 4’ 33” was uncomfortable rather than ambient. Any illustration of romantic mobility had been, by this point in the commissioning process, dismantled by artists not prepared to fall into step with such institutional desires. In commissioning artists to make public walks, the directors and curators of Compton Verney set in process a chain of questions surrounding the contemporary museum and its desire for a fluid and easy relation to its broader public. Many of the works that are gathered together by institutional marketing departments under the rubric of ‘social engagement’, are designed to fulfill governmental funding criteria of social inclusion, like those at Compton Verney. While many of the works that fit into recent theories of ‘relational aesthetics’, attempt to utilise fluid forms either physically – walking, journeying, moving from site to site – or conceptually – nomadisms, diasporas, flâneurisms – to ease the burden of representation that has fallen to them. This cursory attempt to redefine the museum as a place that welcomes fluidity (an attempt that, ironically, usually occurs in the guise of ‘off-site’ projects or projects that are commissioned to occur whilst a building is closed for renovation) is at least philosophical and at most strategic. The interests of those who would promote a more cautious dialogue in respect of a museum’s desire to access the spaces outside its walls is currently not well served. At this juncture, the question is not one of curatorial fluidity, or of a museological understanding of its potential to be ‘without walls’. Instead the demand should be for a more complex understanding of such curatorial and institutional investments. Walking is easy. Asking artists to take walks is also relatively easy (and cheap). But artists and viewers are suspicious of any motivation that asks them to ‘join in’ as if it were simple, as if space could be so fluidly crossed. *** – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 88] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Andrea PHILLIPS: Walking into Trouble Notes 1. Leslie Stephens, as discussed in Anne D Wallace, Walking, Literature and English Culture: The Origins and Uses of Peripatetic in the Nineteenth Century, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993, p. 172. 2. Christian Philip Muller quoted by Brian Wallis in Jeffrey Kastner (ed.), Land and En ironmental Art, London: Phaidon, 1998, p. 40. 3. Anne D Wallace, Walking, Literature and English Culture, p. 26. – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 89] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism Naomi Stead MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 90] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism Perhaps it is simply a coincidence that the English-language titles of two of the most significant works of museum theory and criticism of the late modern period rest upon an architectural metaphor. Perhaps it is also a coincidence that both of these titles, Andre Malraux’s The Museum Without Walls and Douglas Crimp’s On the Museum’s Ruins, refer to the breaching of the architectural envelope, the breaking down of the museum’s integrity as a bounded, discrete, or autonomous realm.1 But then again, perhaps this is no coincidence at all. Indeed, if there was to be any overriding metaphor that could encapsulate the state of the museum institution in the modern period, it is hard to see any that would serve better than the architectural. And if there were to be a theme that most characterised the work of critics of the art museum through the same period, it would surely be the attempt to break through the boundaries that isolate the museum from life praxis, to ‘ruin’ it by breaching its ‘walls’. As Hugh Kenner has observed, ‘[t]he history of twentieth-century art may someday appear to have been simply a death struggle with the museum’.2 The attempt to dismantle the museum’s walls, whether literally or figuratively, is thus the sign of a desire to inhere the museum within the world, to render its edges permeable, even non-existent, and thus open to the free and reciprocal flow of light, space, time, people, objects and commerce. Throughout the museum’s history, declarations that the institution is itself ‘dead’, finished, ruined, a spent and outdated force, have frequently been balanced by condemnations of its process of ‘killing’ objects, subjects, art and history in order to represent them. The argument hinges around two different conceptions of the museum – one as a benign institution which passively collects objects that have already died, as it were, of natural causes, and the other as a murderous institution that stalks and ‘kills’ objects, dragging them into its lair never to see the light of day again. The critical discourse which works against the museum as understood in this way – as a ‘deadly’ and destructive agent – is most fierce in its treatment of art museums, which in Daniel Sherman’s words provide ‘the most elaborately articulated instance of decontextualisation as a strategy of power’.3 In light of this, it is interesting to note not only that the critical project of ‘ruining’ the museum by breaking down its walls has re-occurred throughout the history of the institution, but that it has taken both practical and conceptual forms – it can be identified in art practice as much as in museum theory and criticism. This paper will set out to trace this trajectory through –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 91] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism several manifestations: firstly, in the historical avant-garde, here exemplified in the rhetoric of Fillipo Marinetti, and later in the neo-avant-garde movement known as institutional critique. Peter Bürger’s Theory of the A ant-Garde, and Hal Foster’s later re-reading of this in his essay ‘What’s Neo About the Neo-Avant-Garde?’, will serve as tools for the analysis and interpretation of these moments. It will thus be possible to observe a significant parallel between the avant-garde project of breaching the museum’s walls, and a key trend in the ‘new museology’ – towards liveliness, openness, and the contiguity of the museum with the everyday world. The polemically anti-museum stance of the Italian Futurist movement, and in particular of their spokesman FT Marinetti, is well known. The Futurists saw in museums a cult of the past, and expressed in a series of manifestoes their ‘disgust’ for the ‘fanatical worship of all that is old and worm-eaten’.4 In this conception, museum visiting is a form of ‘poison’ to the young artist, one that can only cause ‘decay’, especially when contrasted with the violence and vitality of the Futurist ideals of energy, aggression, speed, and militarism.5 Marinetti writes that while it is acceptable to visit museums once a year, ‘as one visits the grave of dead relatives,’ they are really places for the dying, invalids, and prisoners, not for the young, strong, and ‘living’.6 There is a binary opposition at play here: the Futurist dedication to the sound and fury of the instantaneous, fleeting moment of lived experience is pitted against the apparently unchanging, silent and funereal space-time of the museum, conceived as a mere archive of ‘old pictures’. Such a conception implies not only that the museum is irrelevant and outdated, but also that it actually encroaches upon and stifles life and creativity in the present, preventing a direct and spontaneous engagement with the ‘now’. Accordingly, in a fit of ecstatic iconoclasm Marinetti exhorts his fellow artists to ‘set fire to the bookshelves! (…) Turn the canals and flood the vaults of museums! (…) Let the glorious old pictures float adrift! Seize pickaxe and hammer!’7 Marinetti’s opposition here is clearly to museums as well as to the idea of art as separate and indeed alienated from life praxis in the present. An opposition to decontextualisation, the ways in which art museums ‘kill art to write its history’, in Quatremere de Quincy’s words, can thus be recast as an opposition not only to the museum, but to the museum as it institutionalises autonomous art. This is the general position set out by Bürger, who argues that the historical avant-garde can –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 92] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism be defined by its desire to bridge the characteristically modern schism between the realm of art and that of the everyday. Bürger derives his theory of the avant-garde, and in particular his conception of the role of autonomy within it, from Theodor Adorno’s Aesthetic Theory. According to both Bürger and Adorno, the autonomy of art was historically determined, coming about through the separation of art from its magical or cultic origins – its ‘disenchantment’ – equally as it was separated from pragmatic functions in religious, courtly, or everyday life. Bürger writes that ‘[o]nly after art has in fact wholly detached itself from everything that is the praxis of life can two things be seen to make up the principle of development of art in bourgeois society: the progressive detachment of art from real life contexts, and the correlative crystallization of a distinctive sphere of existence, i.e., the aesthetic’.8 The autonomy of art also entails a separation from the function of entertainment. In short, artworks became autonomous by negating their own historical origins: as Adorno writes, ‘art retrospectively annihilated that from which it emerged’.9 This separation was certainly a product of historical conditions, and doubtless had many and complex causes and effects, but there are two that are most important here. The first is that the aesthetic came to be seen as a realm separate from the empirical world, and therefore that aesthetic experience came to be a special category of experience.10 The second was the inauguration of the art museum in its modern form, and thus the isolation and institutionalisation of art as a special category of human endeavour, distinct from natural history, anthropology and even a broader conception of history itself, as these are constructed in and by museums. In Bürger’s theory, the historical avant-garde was specifically, and polemically, opposed to both of these moments. It is clear that the two are interrelated, that the art museum functions as both the alibi and to a certain extent also the enforcer of art’s alienation from the world, and its ‘confinement in an ideal realm’.11 It is little wonder, then, that the avant-garde directed much of its ire against the museum, as the tangible, physical, and indeed architectural symbol of art’s separation from life. But here there is a contradiction, as Bürger argues: it was at just the historical moment when art came to be seen, understood and appreciated for its own sake, and that the project of the historical avant-garde even became possible, that its separation from life praxis also rendered art irrelevant. The avant-garde thus struggles against the conditions that made it possible at all; the struggle is defined –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 93] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism by what it set out to destroy – which includes the museum. Bürger argues that after the failure or dissolution of the avant-garde project, as emblematised by the inability of artists like Marinetti to actually and successfully reconcile art with life, there came a subsequent, identifiable neo-avant-garde. This was conditioned by the experiments that had preceded it – its artists could not ignore the avantgarde’s attempts to break down art’s alienation and autonomy, but neither could they ignore the continuing fact of this alienation and autonomy. In Bürger’s terms the neo-avant-garde were, amongst other things, engaged in a critique of the ways in which the historical avant-garde had been progressively institutionalised – the proof of the failure of its project. The neo-avant-garde was thus in a difficult position – unable to proceed under the illusion that art could be truly engaged in social life, its artists were obliged to either move on in the knowledge of art’s inevitable detachment, or to take the autonomy of autonomy itself as their subject. For this reason, much of the work of the neo-avantgarde was concerned with the framing conditions of art itself, the ways in which art is defined, constructed, and given value by the institution of art – the entirety of its structures of production, reception, and evaluation. The neo-avant-garde’s movement inside the museum’s walls, as distinct from the avant-garde’s more naive and violent project of breaking them down from without, is thus a sophisticated double-play. Acting as a kind of Trojan horse, it acknowledges the power and permanence of the museum’s role in framing and defining art. As Bürger writes, ‘[n]eo-avant-gardiste art is autonomous art in the full sense of the term, which means that it negates the avant-gardiste intention of returning art to the praxis of life’.12 This is particularly true, and particularly revealing, in that specific genre of the neo-avant-garde known as institutional critique. Institutional critique could be defined, in the words of Benjamin Buchloh, as the attempt to ‘integrate within the conception of a work, the final forms of distribution and the conditions of reception and acculturation, the modes of reading that ensue from them and that are contained within the practices of institutionalisation’.13 It takes the institution itself as its subject, examining the methods by which the structures for the display, dissemination, and sale of art – structures including art criticism, history, and education – construct meaning and value, whilst they disguise their own complicity in these machinations of the culture industry. More than this, though, institutional critique is concerned to subvert the art museum’s power to designate –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 94] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism what is art and what is not, and mount a powerful challenge both to the framing effects of the museum and to modernist definitions of art. Institutional critique exposes the museum’s decontextualisation of art as being equally a recontextualisation, replacing art within a network of narratives, ideologies, and structures of legitimation and control. The advanced mode of institutional critique is usually characterised – and I am deliberately following a canonical or conventional definition here – through the work of Marcel Broodthaers, Hans Haacke, Daniel Buren, Louise Lawler, and Fred Wilson, amongst others, and especially all of these, as Hal Foster has noted, as they were influenced by the work of Marcel Duchamp.14 It can be briefly introduced here, and its iconoclastic power demonstrated, through two classic examples. First is the work that Michael Asher ‘created’ for the Art Institute of Chicago’s 73rd American exhibition, which was a simple but effective act of recontextualisation. Removing the museum’s 18th century bronze statue of George Washington, which had stood at the front of the museum for more than fifty years, he placed it inside the museum in a small gallery dedicated to European art of the same period. As Anne Rorimer wrote of this moment, ‘[h]aving been displaced from the front entrance of the museum, where it had served as a commemorative and decorative object, George Washington was put in the position of being seen in conjunction with other art. By being shown in the middle of the gallery at eye level, the sculpture of Washington was divested of its former purpose as a public monument’.15 Another more politically engaged example would be Fred Wilson’s Mining the Museum exhibition, installed in the Baltimore Museum of Art in 1992. This exhibition used a similar process of recontextualisation to examine how the museum excludes certain historical narratives, in this case Afro-American history. Wilson exposed the museum as an instrument that silences the ‘other’ by exclusion; in a glass case labelled ‘metalwork 1793-1880’, surrounded with elaborate silver pitchers and goblets, he inserted a set of slave manacles, and thus demonstrated the profound effect of context on the meaning of both the object and its institutional frame. By introducing a marginalised history back into a traditional, provincial museum, Wilson was able to invoke the multiplicity of stories excluded by a modernist historical metanarrative. In this context, the idea of the ‘museum piece’ takes on quite a new connotation: it is still, in a sense, an artwork designed ‘for’ the museum, not attempting to take up an independent life in the world, or to reconcile art and life in the avant-garde –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 95] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism manner. But rather than accepting the museum as an end in itself, the ‘museum pieces’ of the neo-avant-garde continue their work after their incarceration. Far from being defused or simply ‘dying’, these works act as irritants, coming to their critical fruition within the museum’s walls. And it is at this point that the various threads that I have attempted to trace in this paper can be drawn together. Bürger argued both that the project of the avantgarde was always contradictory, given that attacks against art’s autonomy were themselves made possible by that autonomy, and that the project eventually failed, as evidenced by the rise of the neo-avant-garde. He argued that the answer to this aporia is not to simply collapse the distance between art and life; it is its very distance from social praxis, its alienation, that allows autonomous art to take a critical stance on life in the world. The collapsing of this distance would result in the loss of art’s critical function, and the project of ‘sublating’ art into life must inevitably lead to the dissolution of art as a distinct category altogether. This becomes particularly telling for my purposes here when a parallel is noted, between the aims of the historical avant-garde, and the trajectory of much contemporary museum criticism. I would argue that the actions of contemporary museum theorists and critics who decry the museum’s alienation from the world, its mausoleum character and isolation behind supposedly impenetrable walls, consciously or unconsciously echo Marinetti’s exhortation to ‘seize pickax and hammer’ and tear those walls down. Marinetti’s crude iconoclasm may be virtually unrecognisable in the sophisticated contemporary discourse of museums, but it is buried there nevertheless. This is more than a curious coincidence. It is the mark of a common project – to collapse distance and to console alienation, to refuse autonomy, and to inhere both art and museum within the space, time, and experience of the everyday. And neither is this contemporary trend entirely metaphorical: attempts to make the institution ever more lively, interactive and entertaining also have significant implications for the museum’s actual walls, for its architecture. Even more interestingly, while the historical avant-garde had little actual success in dissolving the way art is reframed by the art museum, the new museology has had quite a measure of success in breaking down the barriers between the museum and the world. In some museums of natural history, science, and particularly of social history, the boundaries between everyday, empirical life in the present and the space and objects of the museum are now virtually invisible. –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 96] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism The drive towards ‘liveliness’ in the museum has become enmeshed with ideas of democracy, populism, and accessibility in a way that makes it hard to refute. Of course, the identification of the museum’s exclusivities and complicities, its unspoken assumptions and prejudices hidden under the presumption of authenticity, objectivity, and truth, has been a valuable project indeed. The chasm between museum and world has historically been constituted partly by a hegemony over ‘high’ culture both covertly ideological, and overtly exclusionary. But just as Bürger argued that the dissolution of autonomous art into life is a ‘profoundly contradictory endeavour’, one which would dissolve the critical utility of art along with its autonomy, it is possible to see the mode of museum criticism that seeks to ‘ruin’ the institution, break down its walls and re-inhere it with the world, as also ‘profoundly contradictory’. It could be argued that a museum entirely dissolved within the everyday would have neither a critical nor indeed a particularly interesting stance in relation to the world. It is possible to argue that the complete reconciliation of the museum with life would also mean the dissolution and dispersal of the museum until its very distinctness, along with its value to society, was lost. It will not be possible to address the full implications of this proposition here. But it is possible to make some brief observations, and frame some questions that might form the basis of further work. The first of these is the question of causality – of whether this branch of the new museology has come about as a belated but direct consequence of the avant-garde project, or of something else – perhaps a more thoroughgoing postmodern critique of institutions. This in turn leads to the question of why and how a position that is characteristic of an aesthetic avant-garde, and which therefore might be thought to apply only in the realm of art, has migrated out into other cultural discourses. Why, in other words, has a critique that was once specifically directed towards art museums come to bear upon other genres of museum, and other categories of artefact, and does this point to the increasing aestheticisation of all museums, or their growing reliance on aesthetic, or affective, interaction? But perhaps the most pressing question to arise from the constellation of ideas and themes I have attempted to set out in this paper relates to the distinction between the critique enacted by the historical avant-garde, as opposed to the later, more subtle and more knowing stance of the neo-avant-garde. To put this bluntly, is the new museology repeating the mistakes and contradictions of the avant-garde, and if –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 97] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism so, is there a call for an equivalent shift in museology, even a neo-new-museology? This would entail the recognition that there is some value, even if negatory, in the alienation of the museum from life in the world in the present. It would propose that it is only through ‘killing’ objects, mortifying and tearing them from their context in the world, that they can, as shades, in the museum have the life that the instrumentalised world denies them. And even more crucially, it would recast this process as a specifically critical one, stripping objects bare of the accretions of affirmative culture, and revealing the blindness of simple assent to the culture that we have. These are, of course, large propositions. But what it is possible to say with certainty here is that the widespread attempt to break down all distinctions and barriers between the museum and the world should not be simply or uncritically accepted. *** –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 98] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Naomi STEAD: Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism Notes University of Minnesota Press, 1984, 1. In fact Malraux’s book was released under this title only in its English translation p. 23. 9. Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory [trans. – the original French title was Le musée Robert Hullot-Kentor], London: Athlone imaginaire. But this in fact underscores Press, 1997, p. 3. my point, rather than undermines it. 10. Bürger, Theory of the A ant-Garde, p. 23. If we can assume some equivalence 11. ibidem, p. 50. between an ‘imaginary museum’ and a 12. ibidem, p. 58. ‘museum without walls’ then surely it 13. Benjamin Buchloh, ‘The Museum Fictions also follows that a museum is free to be of Marcel Broodthaers’, in AA Bronson more ‘imaginary’ if it is not fettered by the and Peggy Gale (eds.), Museums by Artists, earthly constraints of walls, and indeed of Toronto: Art Metropole, 1983, p. 45. architecture at all. 14. Foster refutes Bürger’s theory that the neo- 2. Hugh Kenner, ‘The Dead-Letter Office’, in avant-garde institutionalises autonomy, Brian O’Doherty (ed.), Museums in Crisis, writing that ‘to repeat the historical avant New York: George Braziller, 1972, p. 172. -garde, according to Bürger, is to cancel its 3. Daniel J. Sherman, ‘Quatremere / critique of the institution of autonomous Benjamin / Marx: Art Museums, Aura, art; more, it is to invert this critique into and Commodity Fetishism’, in Daniel J. an affirmation of autonomous art…the Sherman and Irit Rogoff (eds.), Museum/ repetition of the avant-garde by the neo- Culture: Histories, Discourses, Spectacles, avant-garde can only turn the anti-aesthetic Minneapolis: University of Minnesota into the artistic, the transgressive into the Press, 1994, p. 123. institutional.’ See Hal Foster, ‘What’s Neo 4. F.T. Marinetti, ‘Futurist Painting: Technical About the Neo-Avant-Garde?’ in Martha Manifesto [11 April 1911]’, in Herschel Buskirk and Mignon Nixon (eds.), The Browning Chipp, Peter Howard Selz, et al. Duchamp Effect, Cambridge, Mass.: MIT (eds.), Theories of Modern Art, Berkeley: Press, 1996, p. 13. University of California Press, 1968, p. 289. 15. Anne Rorimer, ‘73rd American Exhibition, 5. Marinetti, ‘The Foundation and Manifesto Gallery 219, The Art Institute of Chichago,’ of Futurism’, in ibidem, p. 287. in AA Bronson and Peggy Gale (eds.), 6. ibidem, p. 287; p. 288. Museums by Artists, p. 22. 7. ibidem, 288. 8. Peter Bürger, Theory of the Avant-Garde [trans. Michael Shaw], Minneapolis: – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 99] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture Joel Sanders MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 100] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture Have museums evolved from ’static repository’ to ‘dynamic workshop’? This paper will examine this central question raised at the conference Museum in ¿Motion? by examining two significant structures both designed and executed over the past ten years that bracket recent trends in museum building: Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim Bilbao of 1997 and Yoshio Taniguchi’s Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) that recently opened in 2004. Looking at both structures from the perspective of a practicing architect, I will consider whether these two much heralded projects live up to the claims of their patrons and designers. Do they represent a radical break from the conventions of museum architecture as they have been passed down to us since the museum typology was first codified in the early 19th century? Although nearly two centuries old, the Altes Museum by Karl Fredrich Schinkel still embodies the image of the Western art museum: a freestanding temple to the arts.1 Sitting alone in a plaza and elevated from the ’profane’ ground plane by a monumental staircase, a screen of columns guides visitors to a grand stair hall that mediates between city and institution. Inside, a chain of galleries ring a centralized top-lit rotunda. The Altes Museum’s aloof detachment from the urban fabric coupled with its impenetrable stone façade reflects and perpetuates the longstanding notion that art occupies a sacred realm uncompromised by the contingencies of everyday life. In their designs, both Gehry and Taniguchi explicitly reject classical precedents in favour of an alternative conception of the contemporary museum that integrates rather than isolates the institution from urban context. The centrepiece of a large-scale urban revitalization of Bilbao’s abandoned industrial waterfront, the Guggenheim employs a palette of materials – limestone, metal and steel – that pay homage both to Bilbao’s historic town centre and its shipping heritage. The memorable photographs of the building’s sculptural massing shot through the narrow street corridors of the old city highlight Gehry’s ambition to merge old and new. Yet these images are deceptive, suggesting that the building is embedded within the heart of the urban fabric, when in fact, it is separated from the city by a major vehicular roadway on the south and a river on the north that together constitute a kind of moat. In sharp contrast to the smooth rectilinear envelope of the classical museum, the Guggenheim’s crenellated perimeter clad in reflective titanium panels calibrated to dematerialize its surface, visually conveys permeability. Nevertheless, like a high-tech –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 101] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture armadillo, the building largely conceals its contents behind an inscrutable metal skin that is ultimately less porous than the façade of the Altes Museum which although clad in stone, is studded with windows. Likewise, the Guggenheim’s convoluted entry sequence also undercuts Gehry’s effort to promote pedestrian flow: contrary to expectation, the bold metal sign cantilevered over a row of glazed doors leads not to the main entrance but to retail, the museum restaurant and bookstore. In an interesting inversion of classical precedent, visitors descend rather than ascend a flight of steps to gain access to the Guggenheim’s subterranean entrance. As opposed to Gehry’s bravura sculptural massing, Taniguchi’s sedate composition of prismatic volumes clad in honed black slate and metal panels at first glance presents merely an updated image of the staid classical museum now rendered in modern garb. But, Taniguchi’s scheme, the product of a two-stage design competition, exploits MoMA’s dense mid-block site, creating a ‘street museum‘ keenly responsive to its urban and historical context. The competition brief required architects to join the newly purchased Dorset hotel site with MoMa’s other discrete properties built along the length of West 53rd street – the original 1939 Godwin-Stone building, a 1964 addition by Philip Johnson, and the 1984 Museum Tower by Cesar Pelli. Rather than sheath the pre-existing structures with a new unifying skin, Taniguchi, assumes the role of museum conservator and painstakingly restores them, treating them as ’a fascinating collage of milestones in the history of the museum’, now oriented around yet another historical artefact, Johnson’s sculpture garden of 1953. On 54th street, Taniguchi’s paired pavilions bookend the refurbished garden: one houses an education centre, the other the main entry to the permanent collection and special exhibitions. These two low-slung structures whose heights match the cornice line of the 1939 building, are tied together by an extension of Johnson’s original stone garden wall which, when seen against the transparent curtain wall of the garden courtyard facade behind, projects an overall image of institutional permeability, an impression further enhanced by the addition of a new mid-block arcade that links the 53rd and 54th street entrances. Both Gehry and Taniguchi channel pedestrian traffic through that now ubiquitous feature of the contemporary art museum, the atrium. This updated version of Schinkel’s rotunda no longer functions as a static space embedded in the middle of the plan but is in both projects conceived of as a spectacular multi-purpose space designed to accommodate visitors by day, parties and special events by night. –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 102] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture Although at first glance, Gehry’s vertigo-inducing tangle of billowing sheetrock, glass, and metal activated by multiple vertical circulation systems seems miles apart from Taniguchi’s serene composition of meticulously detailed stone and glass panels, both institutions are organized around monumental social condensers that offer visitors selected views of the exterior. However, while Gehry and Taniguchi conceive of the atrium as an urban sponge, transparency remains unidirectional. In both projects, the visitors’ gaze is permitted to pass outside to regard framed views of the city but only selectively allowed to transgress the internal walls of the adjacent exhibition spaces that surround the atrium like a second opaque interior façade. Interestingly enough, Gehry and Taniguchi unapologetically adopt lock, stock and barrel that quintessential container for modern museum spectatorship, the ‘white cube’. Although a definitive history of the white cube has yet to be written, this typology, most likely derived from Bauhaus precedents, first emerges as an institutional standard in the United States at MoMA’s influential 1939 building. It has remained the norm in museums and galleries around the world, its popularity based on the presumption that this pristine viewing environment does not distract the viewer’s direct and uncontaminated apprehension of works of art. Despite critiques launched by numerous artists and critics from Brian O’Doherty to Daniel Buren, architects overlook the historical and ideological specificity of this contested space: the white cubes’ in ention coincides with the emergence of abstract painting and facilitates the modernist’s painter’s renunciation of illusionist space in fa our of flatness. The white walls of the modern gallery complement the surface of the can as itself, becoming the foil for the display of large flat abstract images, images that are generally stripped of a significant yet often o erlooked feature of traditional easel paintings, the picture frame.3 Before the advent of the white cube, galleries were often hung floor to ceiling with pictures adorned with elaborate frames. In the same way that window frames differentiate interior from exterior, the continuous perimeter of the picture frame formed a discrete margin that distinguished actual from pictorial space and as a consequence, the realm of art from everyday life. Cleaving the transcendental realm of art from the material world, the frame also emancipated the eye from the corporeal –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 103] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture body stationed in actual space, inviting viewers to optically cross the threshold of the frame and conceptually enter into pictorial space. As a result, picture frames when considered in conjunction with illusionist images upheld a longstanding conception of vision and the senses dominant in Western thought since the Middle Ages, that distrusts and denigrates the abject body while it redeems sight as an immaterial operation affiliated with higher intellect. 4 But as mural-sized post-war abstractions created by artists like Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning abandon their frames, paintings emerge as material artefacts that threaten to undermine two tenets central to both Humanist and Formalist (Greenbergian) art theory – art’s autonomy and privileged status, maintained by pure disembodied opticality.5 Architecture comes to art’s rescue. The modern gallery assumes the burden of the now obsolete picture frame by in effect, becoming a three-dimensional, inhabitable frame. Uninterrupted by apertures, its six impervious surfaces (floor, four walls, and ceiling) effectively exclude the outside world, establishing a new spatial and cultural limit within which spectatorship can take place. But while the pristine galley wall successfully divides art from life, unlike the picture frame, it fails to distinguish vision from the biological body. Gallery design must now compensate for the viewer’s body, caught within the containing frame of the gallery walls and devise an alternative strategy to liberate eye from body if it hopes to uphold the fiction of disembodied vision. It does so by concealing all those architectural elements that might conjure the presence of the body, taking such measures as eliminating furniture (except for the occasional bench), hanging pictures at a standard (male) eye height and hiding the HVAC (heating, ventilating and air conditioning) that maintains human comfort. However, the track light is the principal instrument deployed to allow observers to forget their corporeal existence. The track light, placed overhead on the ceiling and out of sight, distributes a band of light around the periphery of the gallery wall and floor, that situates the body, the receptacle for the human eye, at a prescribed viewing distance – typically 3 to 4 feet – from works of art. Track lighting makes visual communion with art works possible while at the same time physically distancing viewers from them, illuminating a precinct of looking but not touching. Behaving like the now obsolete picture frame, this band of light facilitates the metamorphosis of the viewer into a disembodied subject capable of encountering self-sufficient –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 104] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture abstractions through unmediated optical contemplation. While both Gehry and Taniguchi go to great lengths to rethink the museum’s traditional relationship to the urban context, both architects do not seem concerned with reconsidering the white cube, the normative spatial and ideological context within which museum spectatorship takes place. In yet another respectful nod towards preserving MoMA’s architectural legacy, Taniguchi reproduces MoMA’s formula in a modified format. In response to curatorial demand for immense galleries to accommodate large-scale contemporary art, Taniguchi inflates the template defined by MoMA’s original domestically scaled galleries. Tweaking the convention of top lighting, he invents an ingenious stepped section that allows the perimeter zone of artificial illumination to be augmented by a band of natural light. Despite Taniguchi’s penchant for using diaphanous window walls, views to the city occur rarely from the galleries themselves, but mostly from interstitial spaces between them. At Bilbao, Gehry’s penchant for making complex forms would make him inclined to tamper with exhibition conventions but it seems that his hands are tied. He houses the permanent collection in iconic square shaped white rooms that are arranged in suites of three and illuminated from above by centralized skylights and on the periphery by track lights. As at MoMA, the curatorial brief also obliged him to introduce a warehouse-like space for temporary exhibitions. Gehry’s solution: an extruded white cube whose immense scale, boat-like form, and curving skylights, resists rather than facilitates the kind of flexible, sub-dividable, and demountable spaces craved by contemporary museum curators. Gehry does manage to slip in a few of his signature sculptural moves but only within a series of small rooms dispersed throughout the complex. These spaces are reserved for the display of works by living artists, perhaps justified by the logic that only emerging artists, grateful enough to have their work exhibited at a prestigious venue, will consent to compete with Gehry‘s strident forms. At Bilbao the configuration of galleries privilege canonical works by modern masters over recent examples by contemporary practitioners. In the hands of Gehry and Taniguchi, gallery walls function as prophylactic membranes that not only prevent the mixing of art and life but also restrict the mingling of public space and private infrastructure. In both buildings, display is rigorously segregated from production: spaces for shipping and receiving objects and as well as for fabricating and mounting exhibitions (storage, workshops, conservation labs) are concealed from public view. (Ironically, Gehry’s building –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 105] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture represses the most radical aspect of its director’s mission – Thomas Kren’s controversial conception of the Bilbao as one of a constellation of Guggenheim outposts that permit the global circulation of artefacts.) While the objects remain static, being fixed to walls or sitting on pedestals, the staff that handles them are relegated to a rabbit-warren of rooms in the basement. Those employees higher in the museum hierarchy are afforded a window and a view. Both the Guggenheim Bilbao and MoMA house curators and administrators within administrative wings rendered as independent volumes safe-guarded from the public. They merely pay lip service to the desire of erasing borders between general public and private institution. Significant architectural innovation is confined to making a permeable relationship between city and atrium. This, however, can be said of many of the recent crop of acclaimed buildings. Steven Holl’s Museum of Contemporary Art in Helsinki or Santiago Calatrava’s Milwaukee Museum represent dazzling exercises in sculptural form from the outside, but nevertheless leave the internal programmatic components of the traditional museum and their attending ideologies virtually intact. Galleries continue to be treated as windowless white boxes divorced not only from the everyday but also from the behind-the-scenes support spaces – curatorial offices, workshops, and storage areas – that make exhibitions possible. Although wrapped in eye-catching cladding, today’s new museums do not truly differ from their neo-classical predecessors – aloof citadels invested in demarcating and perpetuating divisions between public and private, vision and the body, art and life. How can we account for this discrepancy between rhetoric and design, a contradiction which some critics cynically attribute to the ’Bilbao effect’, the triumph of photogenic trophy monuments constructed as tourist destinations? While it is tempting to cast the blame on architects, surely the problem is far more complex. Often despite their best efforts, architects are confronted with paradox: the ideal of transparency is thwarted by some of the following constraints, both practical and ideological. Conservators are obligated to shield vulnerable art objects from potentially harmful environmental effects. As a consequence, today museum exterior envelopes have necessarily developed into sophisticated high-tech membranes that regulate sunlight and stabilize fluctuations in temperature and humidity. In our post 9/11 world where priceless works of art are more vulnerable than –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 106] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture ever before, security and surveillance requirements preclude porosity. Escalating insurance prices and global tensions are discouraging museums from mounting the kind of blockbuster exhibitions predicated on international loans. If they hope to compete, today’s museums must become fortified bastions equipped with inconspicuous electronic eyes that augmenting the work of museum guards, watch spectators while they observe art objects. Responding to the pressure to mount multi-media spectacular productions, museums buildings have come to resemble theatres, incorporating complex technical facilities that reinforce the division between front and back-of-the-house. Reinforcing this public/private divide, museum administrators prefer to remain architecturally inconspicuous, perhaps as a way of diverting attention away from the now widely acknowledged fact that museums have become big businesses. (MoMA’s high-profile board raised over $800 million to pay for the expansion’s steep price tag and most now raise revenues to meet the building’s increased operating expenses.) While museum boards occasionally might tolerate the work of artists like Hans Haake or Glenn Seator who provocatively highlight the intersection between art, politics and commerce, they understandably might seem reluctant to commission buildings that call attention to their inner workings. The requirement to accommodate new media also inhibits architectural transparency. Video and digital art favour uninterrupted static walls and windowless spaces, leading some to predict that in the near future the white cube will be superseded by the black box. This impulse runs counter to the spirit of early practitioners of video art, like Yoko Ono, Vito Acconci, Andy Warhol and Michael Snow, who first introduced film into the site of the gallery as a strategy to de-familiarize the experience of watching film. Working in a similar vein to their Minimal and Conceptual colleagues, who were also interested in activating the space and body of the viewer, these artists encouraged ambulatory spectators to critically resist the complacency induced by Hollywood narrative films, as passively seen in the numbing darkness of traditional cinemas.6 Why are we so quick to adopt new media galleries that have come to resemble precisely the black box theatres that these early pioneers rejected? Interestingly enough, museum architects and their patrons have largely ignored these spatio/ideological issues, many of which have been highlighted by artists from Hans Haacke to Julia Scher, Marcel Broodthaers to Fred Wilson and discussed at –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 107] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture length in critical texts and academic conferences.7 (In fact, in preparation for its Design Charette, MoMA conducted a series of debates, conferences and lectures, enlisting curators, staff and trustees as well as noted architects, artists, and critics in a year of ‘soul searching’, and ‘self-analysis’.8) Rather than hold on to a naïve and unrealistic ideal of pure transparency, architects and their patrons must first confront these seemingly irreconcilable conflicts and work together to formulate viable new alternatives to the white cube. They must devise prototypes for exhibition spaces that realign conditions of spectatorship without overwhelming the works of art they display. They must discover new ways of redistributing programmatic relationships so that activities, both in the front and at the back of the house, public and private, can selectively overlap. Likewise, the challenge of incorporating state-of-the-art technologies required by film, video and performance art can inspire designers to think outside of rather than within the box, generating flexible multi-media spaces conducive to engaging the eyes and bodies of spectators. Lastly, the imperative to address post 9/11 security requirements can become a catalyst for creativity, initiating the invention of porous spaces that do not compromise the security of the objects and people they shelter. Only then can we hope to overcome the spatial and cultural constraints that are fundamentally at cross-purposes with the museum’s recurring dream of borderless mobile buildings. Until then, the best we can hope for is yet another crop of signature buildings of which architectural flourishes remain only skin deep. *** –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 108] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Joel SANDERS: Skin Deep: Transparancy and Contemporary Museum Architecture Notes 1. Douglas Crimp, On the Museum’s Ruins, Cambridge: MIT Press, 1995 2. Brian O’Doherty, Inside the White Cube, Santica Monica: The Lapis Press, 1986. 3. Martin Jay, ‘Scopic Regimes of Modernity’, in Hal Foster (ed), Vision and Visuality, Seattle: Bay Press, 1988. 4. Clement Greenberg, ‘Toward a Newer Laocoon’, in Clement Greenberg, The Collected Essays and Criticism [Volume 1], Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955. 5. Chrissie Iles, Into the Light: The Projected Image in American Art 1964-1977, New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, 2002 6. See a.o. Kynaston McShine, The Museum as Muse: Artists Reflect, New York: The Museum of Modern Art,1999 7. See John Elderfield (ed.), Imagining the Future of the Museum of Modern Art, New York: Museum of Modern Art / Harry N. Abrams, 1998. – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 109] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Jeroen BOOMGAARD: Non-space Non-space Jeroen Boomgaard MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 110] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Jeroen BOOMGAARD: Non-space Museums, and museums of modern art more in particular, have become the nonspaces of our time. Airports and shopping malls, yesterday’s designated non-spaces, have made up a new typology that fulfils its purposes almost perfectly. Their visual appeal may be limited, yet through their organisation and structure they have become ‘empowered’ places where costumers willingly dwell. Although the exact nature of these places’ attraction may be hard to define, they shamelessly reduce themselves to the bare essentials as far as purpose is concerned: they are places of consumption. Even an airport terminal seems more about spending power than the wish to travel. Rules and rituals ooze that first and most important principle. These places have set an example for existing building types. Railway stations are looking increasingly like hybrid shopping malls/airport halls. They connect sheer necessity – travel or daily commuting – to the sense of freedom and consumption and attempt to erase the sordid and disreputable atmosphere that large railway stations have always breathed. The mix of expectation and nervousness, haste and endless waiting that was charmingly part of the traditional railway experience has been replaced by a much more regulated rhythm that does away with deviations. Museums used to be very well-defined places as well. Passing their thresholds, visitors would get a clear sense of purpose: entering a museum of modern art made them part of modern culture – not as a right of birth, but as a democratic principle. The museum experience could always be surprising, but was at the same time clearly distinct from daily life, even when art that intended to bridge the gap with common life was on show. Museum rooms promised a certain kind of liberty and hinted at possibilities that would probably never be fulfilled. Gratification was not an issue, which was very gratifying indeed. When things changed is difficult to trace. Yet, the changes are obvious. This session of the conference deals with some of the issues that may be at hand. What it mainly deals with are for instance the tendency in contemporary art to establish a relation with the public outside of the museum – as is tackled in Andrea Philips’ ‘Walking into Trouble’ –, the related factor that an avant-garde positioning in art may entail the end of the museum – as Naomi Stead argues in ‘Decontextualisation, Autonomy, and the Neo-Avant-Garde: Institutional Critique and Museum Criticism’ – and the inability of museums to create new spaces that would generate new programmes – Joel Sanders’ ‘Skin Deep: Transparency and Contemporary Museum Architecture’. –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 111] SEMINAR: SESSION 1: Jeroen BOOMGAARD: Non-space Since the 1950s and 1960s artists have tried to reconnect to daily life by escaping the embalming effect of the museum. Starting from the Situationist déri e movement was the favourite tool to find real life. Actions of the kind were intended to critique the institution and the fact that most of these neo-avant-garde endeavours ended up in the realm of the museum could be seen – once again – as proof of the institution’s power and idiosyncracy. Contemporary artistic projects that involve walking and movement do not oppose themselves in the same way to the museum as the earlier projects did. They opt for surrounding of local communities just to connect to another audience and another tradition with its own rituals and habits. In doing so, the museum becomes ‘just another place’; a place that does not seem to be connected to any specific community and does not carry any worthwhile tradition. The museum cannot counter or even gainsay this attitude, which results in a broader avant-garde attack on the position of art – the final end of all avantgarde action being the end of art as a separate category. The museum of modern art that wants to take up the challenge can only end up beyond itself, in some unpredictable place where art is no longer art but somehow part of life, which is exactly the crisis of identity that the museum struggles with. It no longer wishes to be the place of high culture for the happy few (voluntarily or involuntarily) and turns into a locale of events and consumption that only ephemerally relate to what art used to be. The layout of recent museum architecture mirrors this attitude. The new museum is visually stunning, yet its attractive appearance turns out to be a mere shell hiding the emptiness inside. The impressive appearance is an external thing only. The ‘skin’ of the building will attract the masses, but the hallway is a space for business where the aura of high culture can be commercially exploited. The rooms where the core business is taking place are often truly common. The white cube still dominates, deftly keeping the darker sides of art from view. This discrepancy makes the museum today into a schizophrenic building; a place that appeals but that leaves you in conflict as to what to do once you enter it. A place of the kind can be very interesting. It might even answer to Foucault’s definition of the heterotopy. But to become such a place of ritual and ‘useless use’ the museum will have to take this notion seriously and will have to give up longing to be something that it cannot be. *** –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 112] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Museum and Typology SEMINAR SESSION 2: Museum and Typology MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 113] SESSION 2: Museum and Typology: Abstract Museum and Typology CALL FOR PAPERS This session explores the contemporary meaning and validity of the notion of typology. Within architectural theory, typological distinction is made in terms of programme – museums, churches, prisons, banks or airports – and of morphology – buildings with long hall-shaped interiors, centrally planned buildings, buildings with courtyards, buildings with interconnecting or with separated compartments. The typological discussion usually ensues around the degree in which functional types correspond to morphological types. The museum has a rich typological tradition. Many different ‘forms’ are believed to provoke different museological ‘programmes’, ranging from the classical enfilade of galleries in temple-like buildings, over the sculptural object, the Miesian glass box, the machine-to-exhibit-in to the loft-like or industrial space. But does the concept of typology – both in architectural and institutional terms – still hold critical value today? The trenchant socio-political changes, the drastic expansion of the typical museum programme and the resulting suppression of the classical museological responsibilities have led to a ‘diffuse museological landscape’, from which a typology for the 21st century is hard to extract. Moreover, since the museum of contemporary art seeks to reflect the new, and sets itself the goal to break with the past, it is said to need an ‘evolving typology’. But does contemporary art really need a museum typology of its own, an institutional and architectural type that corresponds to its ever-changing strategies of production and presentation? MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 114] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe Cultural Centres in Europe Christoph Grafe MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 115] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe From the late 1950s until the mid 1970s the ‘cultural centre’ was the default solution for the requirements of state-administered provision of culture in Western Europe. By the end of this period most smaller or medium-sized towns in Sweden, France, Holland, Germany and England had obtained such a building housing a variety of cultural institutions, from performance spaces to galleries, libraries and informal meeting places. In my view, the phenomenon of cultural centres, with all its faults and naïve proposals, needs to be regarded as one of the few attempts at establishing places which combined the claim to provide accessibility to cultural knowledge with an opportunity, in a specific environment, to transgress social and cultural boundaries. What is – or was – the cultural centre? First of all, despite the name that suggests a diffuse range of activities, most cultural centres had a reasonably defined brief. Depending on the context, different programmes were arranged around one or two major public facilities. This could be a public gallery or a performance space, often in the form of a conventional theatre or a concert hall. Especially those cultural centres situated in suburbs or smaller towns tended to advance a public library as the core of the building complex. Secondly, the arrangement of these distinct activities and their spaces suggested that the sum would achieve a higher intensity of use than the constituent parts would on their own. Often economic arguments led to the decision to build a cultural centre rather than a separate theatre, gallery or library Under the influence of the drift of cultural debates in the course of the 1960s, however, the concentration of programmes under one single roof became more and more a matter of choice. The creation of a building that would house a range of activities instead of one confined cultural practice suggested an open and flexible approach to the idea of culture, inviting new audiences and establishing a fertile ground for exploring new artistic practices. Thirdly, the majority of the cultural centres in Northern and Western Europe were more often than not instigated by local council leaders or mayors, and thus devised and paid for by local authorities, rather than national governments (France is the only important exception, since cultural centres became part of the Action culturelle, the cultural policies instigated by de Gaulle’s minister of cultural affairs André Malraux). This may also explain their fragility as institutions. While on the one hand they found themselves competing with established national theatres or galleries, they could on the other hand position themselves as distinct from these older institutions rooted in nineteenth century bourgeois culture. Fourth, –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 116] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe although many cultural centres were run by local bodies, their conception and realisation would not have been possible without the cultural policies as they were formulated by national governments across Western Europe after 1945. Fifth, the majority of the more important cultural centres were conceived and planned in the period spanning the late 1950s to mid ‘60s, and therefore predate the politicised and more radical ideas of 1968. In France, the events of May 68 effectively finished the era of Malraux as minister of culture, more or less terminating also the programme for building cultural centres across the country. Yet, as building developments necessarily involve a time lag between the moment of the initiative and planning and that of the completion of the building, many of the cultural centres came to be seen as characteristic products of the period of greatest visible social and cultural upheaval and the levelling of bastions of power associated with 1968. * Cultural policies and architectural typologies In order to understand the architectural proposals for the cultural centres we will have to take in account the political context in which the initiative for these buildings was taken and the cultural climate that instigated them. Also the typologies, the concrete building form and, perhaps even more importantly, the material appearance of cultural centres need to be discussed against the background of the interests and preoccupations within the architectural discipline. The genesis and the development of this type of institution is the result of debates that were initially not part of architectural discourse. The direction and nature of these wider cultural debates were, however, closely related to the social agenda of modern architecture as it was being reformulated in these years of reconstruction. The design proposals for cultural centres across Europe can be interpreted as responses to this field of forces operating between cultural politics and architectural culture. The institutional framework for cultural policies was established in the aftermath of the war. This development may be seen as directly linked to the electoral success of Social Democratic parties. The involvement of politicians from other political formations, particularly those rooted in the Catholic social movement, should, however, not be underestimated. The building of cultural centres occurred as part of what might be seen as a second, completing phase of the establishment of the welfare state. –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 117] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe Between 1945 and 1965 cultural policies in Northern and Western Europe made a trajectory from a distinctly normative approach – bringing high art to the man in the street – to a more inclusive definition of what culture entailed. An indication for this change of direction is the shift in the terminology of the official documents. The original 1946 charter for the Arts Council of Great Britain, for example, specified ‘the fine arts exclusively’ as the working field of the institution. In the 1967 charter the adjective is dropped, leaving ‘the arts’ as a large container of possibilities, which, as Raymond Williams dryly noted ‘of course returns us to the problem’. This shift was not unproblematic and cultural policies were a contested field; this, then, forms the background of Williams’ explorations of popular culture in the late 1950s and early 1960s. How strongly the debate about the role of culture in the further development of the welfare state was connected to party-political considerations may be illustrated by a passage from the book Har i råd med kultur?, in which Harry Schein, one of the major thinkers in the Swedish Social Democracy of the early 1960s, defines new cultural policy as one of the major Social Democratic instruments to influence society. Schein writes: ‘Economic and social justice and security are respectable goals as such, but at the same time, just a means, the material platform from which the continued reform effort must be made in the immaterial field’. He clearly states that it is in the interest of the ruling Social Democracy to develop a strong, newly formulated idea about culture in an emerging consumer society, not least for electoral reasons.1 The question is how this intended increased openness of culture – not just in the form in making traditional forms accessible, but essentially also allowing larger audiences to engage actively with the artists, performers and writers (kulturarbetare, cultural workers in the Swedish documents) – would affect the form and appearance of the cultural institutions. One of the strategies of modern architecture before the war and in the 1950s had been to translate the requirement for public decorum into a display of transparency. Now this transparency acquired an extended significance in representing the openness of the public spaces designed for the new extended audiences addressed by the cultural centres. Merely opening up the façade was insufficient, not only because the variety of functions ‘under one roof’ could not be organised using established principles of composition, but also because the architecture needed to facilitate, rather than merely represent, the collective experience of people exerting individual choices. The combination of performance spaces, auditoria and public foyers with –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 118] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe spaces for informal sociability required a designerly investment in the lay-out and composition of the plan. During the first decade after the war the critical debates among architects about patterns of association and movement were dominated by the emphasis on the production of housing and residential new town. It would not be too far-fetched to suggest that these discussions on the form of informal meeting places in the city – streets and squares – had an impact also on the internal organisation of a building category that was primarily intended as a meeting place. Added to this, cultural centres, especially in larger cities with established theatres and museums, needed to position themselves against these older institutions, not only by offering different types of performances or exhibitions, but also by promoting a different reality of use. The new programme of the cultural centre resulted in a great variety of architectural solutions. Here I would like to discuss the complex histories that inevitably accompany the development of a major public building and the underlying cultural and political assumptions by focussing on two case studies. In both cases the metropolitan context of the proposal meant that the designers operated from within established architectural cultures and that the buildings were objects of a critical debate in both the public media and professional circles. The first of these buildings, the South Bank Arts Centre was designed at the beginning of the 1960s, as one of the first cultural centres in a major European metropolis, and predates the changes in arts institutions and the general cultural climate. The second building, Kulturhuset in Stockholm was conceived in the mid 1960s in the middle of heated debates on the role of the cultural institution in the city, and the role of the institution as an exchange between the producers and consumers of culture. Case 1: South Bank Arts Centre * From the outside the South Bank Arts Centre presents itself to the uninformed firsttime visitor as an entity unified by a particular architectural language. The building in fact contains two fairly separate parts, a concert hall and a gallery, each with its own entrance off the deck system. The perception of the building as one structure with a complex geometry is almost entirely the result of the elaborate system of outdoor walkways and bridges connecting the Arts Centre with its wider surroundings and the Underground system. –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 119] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe This emphasis on the connection with the city – as if the building needed to dissolve – contrasts with the rather more traditional internal planning where we find both parts of the building being developed from a brief that was formulated separately. In the extensive correspondence between the commisioners – the local politicians – and the future users – the arts administrators – the combination of two venues for different art forms is presented as a fait accompli. Consequently, there is no evidence that arranging spaces for different types of cultural production on one site was seen as part of a programme of diffusing boundaries between visual and performing arts or experimenting with new forms of interaction between producers and their audience. Ideas for an extension of the complex of cultural buildings on the South Bank had been discussed in the early 1950s. It took almost a decade before this programme took the shape that was eventually executed. The London County Council (LCC), and particularly its leader Isaac Hayward, were determined to realise a concentration of cultural buildings on the site, but the programme was also the result of accidents; the concert hall, for example, evolved out of the original plan to extend another concert hall on the site, the Royal Festival Hall (1948-51). The idea to build an exhibition gallery following the model of a German Kunsthalle or the Orangerie in Paris had its roots in a programme of travelling exhibitions curated by the Arts Council of Great Britain – intended to bring major art to the capital and the provinces. Both the concert hall and the gallery were not rivals to existing institutions, but provided additional and complementary facilities. The requirements for the travelling exhibitions resulted in a solution for a flexible art space of considerable dimensions that itself had no parallels in any British city and few elsewhere at the time. This was a strategy towards design that allowed technical solutions to be developed separately, and afterwards to be integrated in the scheme. The building then becomes the accumulation of these solutions and involved a variety of specialists, as well as the core group of designers within the architect’s department of the London County Council, London’s local authority at the time. This involvement of many participants created a pretext for a design approach which relied on first identifying separate issues and their solutions and only afterwards integrating them. The design team included Warren Chalk, Ron Herron and Dennis Crompton who became members of Archigram in 1962. As reference for the solution at South Bank Chalk mentions the entries for the Hauptstadt Berlin competition of 1958 by –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 120] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe the Smithsons and Arthur Korn.2 In a similar fashion, the design for South Bank provides walkways to establish a new ground level and to offer comfortable and uninhibited access to those spaces they interconnect. The formal language of the building and its concrete cladding in particular disguise the fact that essentially the building was conceived of as a machine. All channels of movement – of people and cars but also of air or electricity – were expressed as independent elements, detached from the enclosed rooms that they serve. The main feeder duct to the auditorium, for instance, appears as a heavy ribbon wrapped around its top, while air ducts materialise as cantilevered concrete bands resembling the pedestrian balconies winding around the building. A few years later this conception of the building as a conglomerate of shells and separate servicing ‘plugs’ undoubtedly would have been expressed in a lightweight steel or even inflatable structure. In this respect, the South Bank emerges not only as a first sign of Archigram’s city of ‘components on racks, components in stacks, components plugged into networks’, but also as a somewhat unlikely predecessor to that other notorious cultural centre, the Centre Pompidou in Paris (1971-77).3 In proposing a building free of the compositional ideas that had governed the architecture of the late 1940s and 1950s, the Arts Centre seemed, however, not only to point to a city of the future, but also to one pre-ceding history. Warren Chalk describes the building as a pseudo-prehistoric landscape element, as ‘an anonymous pile, subservient to a series of pedestrian walkways, a sort of Mappin Terrace for people instead of goats’.4 The reference to the artificial rock featuring wild animals in the London zoo is revealing, proposing the building as an adventurous playground for tribes of urban dwellers, formed by nomadic patterns of movement and association. His description of the users of the city in general and the building in particular reads as an ethnographic analysis of tribal behaviour, rather than of forms of sociability and public display in a twentieth century capitalist metropolis: ‘(…) the pedestrian, the gregarious nature of people and their movement was uppermost in mind, and the built demarcation of space used to channel and direct pedestrian patterns of movement’.5 The question is, of course, whether this interpretation of the South Bank is an adequate representation of the design ideas of Chalk and his fellow architects at the time of the design, or whether it must be taken as part of a general re-positioning of the project, well after the event. Without doubt this version only ever reflected the views of the future Archigram members of the design team, who had a limited –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 121] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe amount of control over the project. Set against the reality of the building with its highly prescriptive layout, Chalk’s suggestion of a pile shaped by informal footpaths and open to appropriation is misleading and, at the same time, telling. It illustrates the huge discrepancy between the traditional concept of institutionalised performance and curatorial practices as laid down in the brief on the one hand and the designer’s ideas and or fantasies about the buildings’ capacity to invite interaction and accidental events on the other. Public galleries and performance spaces derive their flexibility from offering well-facilitated floor area and space, not from the possibilities for individual appropriation. Ironically, despite Warren Chalk’s later suggestions of an anarchic and adhoc inhabitation, it is the flexibility of the interior that is the most successful aspect of the South Bank. The exterior, with all its promises of an informal, interactive behaviour, has remained virtually unchanged since the building opened to the public. This discrepancy between the intended or suggested flexibility and the rather less adventurous programme is tangible in this design. There is not the slightest evidence that either the LCC or the Arts Council sought to provide a building for the type of self-determined use suggested by Chalk’s statement and the architectural language of the project. Furthermore, the description of the audience as a collective or the users as individuals remains strangely abstract in the designers’ argument. The nature of the relation between producers and consumers of art is not questioned. Even if Chalk retrospectively suggested that the building should be open to appropriation, this applies in fact only to the outside: the cultural centre as mountain you can climb, but not enter. Case 2: Stockholms Kulturhuset * While the South Bank Arts Centre in London hides its contents in 250 mm of solid concrete, Stockholm’s Kulturhuset displays the totality of its things on offer in one enormous window facing Sergels Torg, the square marking the epicentre of the Swedish capital’s commercial district. Kulturhuset spans the full width of the square and matches the scale of the surrounding buildings. The open space is marked by a constant stream of cars and buses moving along one side and, on a lower level, by a steady flow of pedestrians hurrying towards the central underground station and regularly by a variety of constituencies gathering to demonstrate. Situated on the –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 122] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe south end of the largest reconstruction area of the post-war period, the square is the final outcome of a period during which the Swedish modern welfare state developed and probably reached its climax. Sergels Torg, with its department stores, large-scale offices and its layered arrangement of traffic flows is where the consensus of Swedish society in the 1950s and 1960s seems most tangible: the belief in collective organisation offering the citizen social security, housing and education while, at the same time, embracing technological innovation and a profound rationalisation of all aspects of public and private life. Kulturhuset forms the background for everything that is happening in the square, from the daily dealings to moments of large emotion – the square for example accomadated the wakes for Anna Lindh, the minister of Foreign affairs who was killed while shopping in the department store opposite. Unlike the South Bank, Kulturhuset was designed against the backdrop of a developed debate about its contents and the concept of culture it was to represent. The building is the result of a competition held in 1967 for a programma containing a cultural centre, offices and the central headquarter of the Swedish national bank. In contrast to many of the competition entries, the architect Peter Celsing decided to limit his proposal to the actual site. His apparently cautious approach entailed a radical departure from the rigorous functionalism that had been dominating urban planning in this area during the 1950s and ‘60s. His project can best be summarised as an ensemble of objects, each of which are precise, finite and positioned in a way that resolves the ambiguities of the site. The building was constructed in stages, the first of which was finished in 1971 and served as temporary home for the Swedish Riksdag for the subsequent 12 years. The second stage was finished three years later. Both the urban development of the area and the content of the cultural centre were widely and passionately discussed in newspapers and magazines, allowing at least the partial reconstruction of the arguments and intentions for the building. Reading through some of the material it is clear that the proposal for Kulturhuset was a cause célèbre, both for the advocates of a new ‘progressive’ cultural policy and the defenders of ‘traditional’ values and institutions. One of the main protagonists in this debate was Pontus Hultén, then director of Stockholm’s Moderna Museet and later first director of the Centre Pompidou. Hultén had acted as host for informal gatherings and happenings in the museum and now advocated a partial relocation –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 123] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe of the museum to this site in the centre of the city. This move was motivated by the opportunity for the museum to counterbalance the banality of the commercial world that had taken over the city: ‘The main intention for the relocation of Moderna Museet is to make cultural activities more accessible for the larger general public. One wants to offer non-material (andliga) manifestations with the same effectiveness as those produced by commerce (…)’.6 Hultén’s conception of the house represents a notion of culture ‘that does not know about divisions of social class, and directs itself to “the man in the street” ’. In these statements it appears that Kulturhuset is given a strategic task, as if to halt the ongoing colonisation of all aspects of life by the logic of commerce. Hultén’s position is nevertheless ambiguous. While Kulturhuset is an act of resistance against commercialisation, it also needs to absorb commercial activities: not only a bookshop, but also a record shop – possibly still a controversial choice in the 1960s. The combination of exhibition spaces, a theatre, lobbies and a Läsesalong, a reading lounge with direct access to books and newspapers, is programmatic. Boundaries between artistic disciplines are to be extinguished. Hultén formulates this explicitly: ‘At a time that many areas are characterised by an increasing specialisation, we experience that boundaries between forms of art dissolve and disappear more and more’. The allaktivitetshus was to absorb the museum, which would occupy one of its floors. The architect Peter Celsing views his building in the same terms, describing the project as a ‘department store, flexible and adaptable to new situations’.7 Kulturhuset was to be open to all kinds of activities, from amateur art to happenings at the art museum. This programme with an emphasis on openness and change is housed in an urbanistically very defined building with a large degree of neutrality. All of this went out of the window when Moderna Museet decided not to use Kulturhuset in 1970, after Hultén realised that his plans for a building open to all sections of the public were not to be realised.8 Left without its main cultural user (and most influential supporter), Kulturhuset had to be reinvented. Appropriations * The cultural centres have survived three decades of embarrassed acceptance, neglect and various proposals for demolition. In the same measure that the memory of the culture that produced them has faded away, the intentions and, hence, the – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 124] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe objections associated with this architecture have lost their significance. The fact that these buildings have now been relieved both of many of their initial meanings and of the politically motivated resentments against them, provides a fresh opportunity to register which forms of public and private behaviour they allow and how they have been absorbed by their surroundings. We live in a Europe celebrating its urban renaissances with anxiety, as if to remind ourselves of our supposedly threatened cultural identities. The assumption that the existing social and cultural fabric can somehow absorb the cultural changes of the last three decades seems very optimistic and the insistence on the necessarily exclusive character of culture impedes the exploration of opportunities to reformulate its role *** – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 125] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Christoph GRAFE: Cultural Centres in Europe Notes 1. Harry Schein, Har i råd med kultur?, Kulturpolitiska skisser, Stockholm: Albert Bonniers Förlag, 1962, p. 21. 2. Warren Chalk, ‘South Bank Arts Centre London’, Architectural Design, (March 1967): p. 120-125 3. Design Quarterly, (1965): p. 30. 4. Warren Chalk, ‘Architecture as consumer product’, Arena (the Architectural Association Journal), 8, 900 (March 1966): p. 288. 5. Chalk, ‘Architecture as consumer product’, p. 288 6. Pontus Hultén, ‘Celsings fondbyggnad vid Sergels Torg’, Arkitektur (July 1967). 7. Peter Celsing, ‘Struktur för Kultur’, Arkitektur (July 1967). 8. The report of the committee installed to rewrite the brief for Kulturhuset after Hultén left for Paris contains a programmatic text in which an expert group, including the museum director, had made the case for this new open public institution. ‘Skrivelse från expertgruppen, 5 January 1969’ in: Kulturlokalerna id Sergels Torg, Kulturkomiténs Slutrapport, Kommunstyrelsens Utlåtanden och Memorial (Stockholm), nr. 49, 1971. – 12 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 126] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Lieven DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, The Architect and the Millionaire MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 127] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire The paper traces a parallel between different operations performed in architecture (the definition of the formal type, the construction and the erasure of the manual, the dismissal of the functional type) and outside of architecture (the performance and its staging, the collector as curator, daily life as exhibition), in order to open up the museum as a space of display between the individual and the city, between private and public. In architecture, Lieven De Boeck’s investigations use exact quantities, numbers, precise definitions of words, dimensions and times. It is with the sharpness of these tools that his drawings cut through architectural typologies and conventions. The stated scope of his work is the preparation of a visual ‘dictionary of space’. Reaffirmed and multiplied, dissected and deconstructed, emptied forms and rules offer room to define and liberate new occupations of space. De Boeck’s work on the museum operates on the different languages of architecture – norms, definitions, typologies. His drawings question the manual’s formal regulations for the ‘museum’ through their obliteration, substitution, replacement and misplacement. Outside architecture, but constantly interacting with it, Peggy Guggenheim’s life experiment in contemporary art collection and display enacts a critique of the space and the role of the museum which anticipates and realizes some of De Boeck’s theoretical provocations. From Art of This Century to Ca’ Venier dei Leoni in Venice, Peggy Guggenheim explodes all predefined programmes and formal solutions for the display of contemporary art, suspending the space of the museum between the private/personal and the public/city: on the one hand there was a woman who loved, sponsored and promoted artists, constructing her autobiography through artworks; on the other hand a city so historically and culturally loud that it could never be excluded from the space of the collection, providing for it the best context, apparently perfect and yet vulnerable and perpetually unfinished. Stage Setting * This text is not only an essay on the undoing of the museum to be read individually or to be delivered to an audience of convened specialists: it is in fact the script for a performance. As such, the written word is only one of the elements of a composite message, delivered not only through the reading of the text, but also through other means or theatrical props. Some spatial considerations are required then, to set a –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 128] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire stage that allows to speak of – or perform on – the space of the museum and its fading. Stage: a large rectangular white room, the typical ‘white cube’ space. Audience: a small audience of about fifty, educated enough to smile at the performers’ innuendos and willing to participate. Characters: the Lecturer, equipped with the usual tools of the speaker, a lectern with microphone, a laptop computer for digital slides presentation, a projector and projection screen, a pointer; the Architect, surrounded and identified by a spatial arrangement of his tools and work, architect’s manual, a wall of pinned-up drawings, a box of architectural references and typologies, a table, an industrial light fitting. To make role definition even clearer, make the two characters male and female. Dress them in outrageously bright colours, to identify them as performers and distinguish them from the greyness-blackness of the audience of architects, artists, museum curators. Setting: the two performers and their props are to be placed at the opposite ends of the room; the audience is to face neither of them, seated in orderly rows parallel to the long side of the room and staring into the void. The end. Or the beginning. Performance: the Lecturer delivers her speech; the Architect, silent, mimes and points at his work; Lecturer’s pointer and Architect’s floodlight move and intersect across the room to direct the audience’s gaze, concentrating or confusing their attention. The space and the act are deconstructed. Topic: the undoing of the museum, in architecture and outside architecture, beginning with its definition as type, building, institution, container, display.1 The Beginning * Before any consideration on the questions of the museum’s role, its work and its contents, to architects the word/task ‘museum’ invokes the idea of ‘type’, as it was developed by the theorists of architecture of the Enlightenment. Type is not understood as a defined form, but as a series of prescriptions for a form – or, to use Quatremère de Quincy’s definition of 1825, ‘an object after which each [artist] can conceive works of art that may have no resemblance’.2 What is absolutely relevant from a design point of view and still has critical repercussions today is that for –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 129] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire Quatremère ‘all is more or less vague in the type’, as it acts ‘like a sort of nucleus about which are collected, and to which are co-ordinated in time, the developments and ariations of forms to which the object is susceptible’.3 Extraordinarily modern in its conception and non-definition of space, Quatremère’s definition of the type refuses to congeal it in one form and offers to architecture the tool of a dynamic fourdimensional proto-form that is at the same time original-generative and derivatecumulative – we would call it, today, a diagram. The Manual * When addressing the theme of the museum, as architects we think ‘type’ and we go to our manuals, before we even start considering the issue of its contents. We go, in particular, to one of the many (national) versions of ‘the’ manual, Ernst Neufert’s Practical Encyclopaedia of Design and Building. And while Lieven De Boeck begins a critical reading by erasures (tip-exing) of his English edition, I look at my Italian copy. Succinctly covering the topic in only two pages, my Neufert conveniently sandwiches ‘Musei’ between ‘Chiese’ and ‘Cimiteri’, thus offering a lapidary but nonetheless powerful Focaultian reading of the institution ‘museum’. Editorially and typographically placed between two other heterotopias – the church and the cemetery – the museum is here still identified as container, in a sequence of increasingly enclosed and sealed spaces, from the openness of the post-Second Vatican Council catholic church – where space is articulated by and around the presence and the positioning of certain key elements (parish centre, parvis, nave, presbiterium, altar, seating, ambo, tabernacle, schola and organ, chapels, baptistery, campanile, and church annexes) – to the enclosed cemetery space – clearly delimited and essentially organized around the modularity of the stacked bodies, coffins or tombs.4 Stuck as it is between the two, the museum is thus implicitly but quite clearly defined as both a public space of ritual communication (like the church) and a space of collection of memory (like the museum). The pages on ‘museums’ begin with a disconcertingly biased and outdated (even for post-modern 1980) definition: ‘Particularly suitable for historical objects, for which these building provide the right frame, better than those cold museum called “modern” ’.5 In the exhibition rooms, the works ‘must be 1. protected from damage, –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 130] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire theft, fire, dampness, dehydration, sunlight and dust, and 2. displayed in the best light (in the widest sense of the term)’.6 The manual emphasizes shelter, storage, accumulation and cataloguing before display, and consequently in the functional diagram and schematic layout that it proposes (prescribes) the gallery space – i.e. the exhibition – occupies only a small part of the museum, and is directly connected to just a few other functions. As for the display component of the museum, this seems to be resolved in a series of prescriptions for light modulation, enhancement or exclusion. Thus far on page 1. The issue of presentation, representation and appearance is carefully avoided also in the definition of the museum’s overall space: page 2 is entirely devoted to examples of museums presented only in plan and section, and not the ones corresponding to the others, but offered in an assortment of mismatched parts constructing an ‘ideal’ and impossible – and faceless – museum of ‘perfect’ functionality. And yet, the text in the manual ends with the disconcerting acknowledgement of the failure of architectural specificity: ‘Fortifications, castles, abbeys and the like are often empty because they are no longer usable, and therefore very suitable to be turned into museums’.7 In the late 1970s Neufert decrees the death of the space of the museum as public space of display and representation, reducing it to a functional diagram for the optimization of archival storage, distribution layout, lighting conditions: more than ever, the museum as heterotopia of accumulation. Where does architecture go from here? What is there left to do for architecture, apart from defining storage and/or modifying, refurbishing, changing use in ‘castles, abbeys and the like’? Does the generative type – the dynamic four-dimensional proto-form – of the museum still exist, if even the manual invites us to restrict architecture to the transformation of what is already there and originally generated for other purposes? The Neufert – technical, conservative and prescriptive as it is – if critically read, seems to contain or at least suggest a critique of the discipline and of the role of architecture in answering the question ‘what is a museum?’. It places the museum between the church and the cemetery, that is, between the celebration of the collective ritual (the church), and the collection and preservation of memories and the past (the cemetery), in a sacred and difficult and always already ambiguous position. Without reaching Bataille’s provocative paroxysm of associating the museum to –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 131] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire the slaughterhouse as spaces of collective rituals, this dry technical manual triggers questions on the nature of the museum, which remain unanswered.8 Functions and systems of relations of the museum are thus defined, but the museum finds no form, as it remains only suggested by a series of partial and unrelated examples (plans and sections but not corresponding ones). While the museum has many functions and can take many forms, even the Neufert (in 1980) must acknowledge that the museum type does not exist as a form. Not only that. The museum can easily occupy, parasitize, existing and disused structures. It is therefore defined by its functions and contents, by how it occupies rather than makes space. The Architect * It is here that Lieven De Boeck’s work on museum typology begins. De Boeck’s architectural investigations always use exact quantities, numbers, precise definitions of words dimensions and times. It is with the sharpness of these tools that his drawings cut through architectural typologies and conventions. Here the tool is a tip-ex pen, subtle instrument of precise and partial erasure that leaves on the manual’s pages ghostly traces of the lines and words, which have not been removed but added onto. Tip-exing rather than knifing away, he adds onto the certainties and the doubts of the given, obliterates functions and keeps spaces, but only to reoccupy and modify them. The operation is precise, part of a more extended work for the preparation of a visual ‘dictionary of space’ for the definition of new typologies and methodologies for the production of space. But De Boeck’s research is indeed the site for the construction of a critique of architecture through the proliferation of a very personal -and only apparently rational- design imagery. Reaffirmed and multiplied, dissected and deconstructed by the individual, the emptied forms and rules are made available to be defined and liberated by new occupations of space. De Boeck’s work on the contemporary art museum operates on the different languages of architecture - norms, definitions, typologies. His tip-ex drawings question the handbook’s formal regulations and quantitative prescriptions for the ‘museum’ through their erasure, substitution, replacement and misplacement: functional bubble diagrams are obliterated; prescriptions of optimal lighting become space themselves, as agents of an architecture of displays whose materials are not necessarily solid and permanent walls; examples of museums are no longer –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 132] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire recognizable as such and, effaced, become themselves available to other different occupations. In turn, the concealment of scale-identification in random architectural examples of architectures of the 19th and 20th century makes them available to occupation by the museum contents. All these operations seem to suggest that the museum as public space of communication is not defined by the nature of its architectural shells but by its contents, by their ‘democratic’ accessibility, and by the devices employed for their display. In other words, a sort of Malrauxian museum without walls, in which the role of architecture is redefined: not shelter, container, and chronologically ordered celebratory frame, but exhibition device designed with the lightness of tip-ex on the vestiges of the old museum. A re-definition by adjustments. Then, what redefines the museum, after functional diagrams, technical requirements, and building types have been tip-exed? According to De Boeck, the tools of museum making are: 1. A catalogue of available building solutions (neither models nor types any more) that are not museums but could become it. A box of tools with an invitation to reinvent architecture not from scratch but from a given with partial amnesia. 2. A printed in itation to the celebrating – opening, closing, in-process – event. The exhibition becomes a mediatic event that takes place and has repercussions outside the physical boundaries of its location, and therefore engages different spaces. 3. and 4. The museum exhibitions programme and the catalogue, which both reproduce, in other media, the nature of the museum as heterotopian time condenser: of the future – the programme of events is a catalogue of (past) futures, of possibilities and planned strategies – and of the past – the catalogue preserves the (already past) contents of the exhibition and its display by transferring them to another medium (the book). It is not the event and/or the place in themselves that matter, but the recording of them in the book. (Would a museum of exhibition catalogues then be still a museum, or a library? The difference here would be determined – to confirm De Boeck’s assumption – by the nature and definition of the display.) And finally, 5. A table where these objects lie, a white ‘frame’ that silently screams ‘look at me’, inviting to behold and reconsider all these ingredients together: ‘I am the museum, the frame, the trigger of attention’. –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 133] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire A table, a house, a tip-exed plan of a building designed for another purpose: for De Boeck the museum is a private space (the house) that is made public (the erasures performed with the tip-ex) for the presentation and exhibition of a specially assembled selection of objects, and whose scope is made recognizable by a sign (the table, the programme, the invitation). For De Boeck the principal role of the museum is ‘to exhibit’ – ‘to make things public’: the artwork, the collection, but also the curatorial work, the art production and research. If the museum is a strategy of accommodating, organizing, opening and distributing information, then the work of architecture here is to make its space public, and not only by walls or their demolition. Thus de-composed, taken apart, transformed into a con-tainer that does not ‘hold in’ but ‘holds together’, the type of the museum is exploded. Its pieces, now liberated, are made available for the (re)making of the undone museum, a museum penetrated and inscribed by its context, which brings in what norms, definitions and typologies seem to lack: the individual and the city. The millionaire: art in the city * While architecture, slow as usual, struggles with the dilemma and redefines its tools, life seems to provide answers. Peggy Guggenheim’s life in art and work for art can suggest a way to look at the idea of museum as architecture from beyond and outside architecture, through the individual and the city. In different ways, with different languages and actions, with the tools and ways of a lifestyle rather than architecture, Peggy Guggenheim enacted and lived the transgressions that De Boeck draws ‘by erasure’ on his Neufert. More than anybody else (or at least more loudly and more effectively than anybody else) – artists, curators, art critics, architects – Peggy Guggenheim lived and worked towards an opening up of the museum as a space of display that operated between and was compromised with both the individual and the city, the private and the public. From ‘Guggenheim Jeune’ in London before the Second World War, to Art of This Century in New York during the war, to her final and long-lasting ‘experiment’ in Ca’ Venier dei Leoni in Venice, Peggy Guggenheim exploded all predefined programmes and formal solutions for the display of contemporary art, opening up the exhibition space and suspending it between the private/personal and the public/collective. In Venice especially, spatial categories and divisions are defied, private life and –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 134] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire art production intermingle, domesticity and business coexist. On one hand there was Peggy Guggenheim, the woman who loved, sponsored and promoted artists, constructing an autobiography through artworks that although very personal was never exclusively private. On the other hand there was Venice, a city so historically and culturally loud that it could never be excluded from the space of the collection, and offered for it the best context, apparently perfect and complete and yet vulnerable and perpetually unfinished. Venice is, by her own nature, the place of multiplicity and non-dialectic coexistence of differences, of ongoing changes and adjustments, both in her physical making and in the construction of her myth. The city becomes the ideal setting for Peggy’s operation – her life, her collection, and the idea of turning the private space of her house into a place for the production and exhibition of art – a world, writes Gore Vidal, ‘where the party still goes on and everyone is making something new and art smells not of the museum but of the maker’s studio’.9 The encounter with Venice is facilitated by Peggy Guggenheim’s purchase of the perfect setting for her operation, Ca’ Venier dei Leoni, an 18th century family palace on the Canal Grande, remained unfinished during construction for legal disputes with the neighbouring families, and occupied in time by different forms of precarious inhabitation. The ‘palazzo non compiuto’, writes Peggy Guggenheim, ‘had the widest space of any palace on the Grand canal, and also had the advantage of not being regarded as a national monument. […] It was therefore perfect for the pictures’. But also, she continues, ‘The top of the palace formed a flat roof, perfect for sunbathing’.10 And sunbathing she did, lying on the roof above her art collection, in view of the main traffic artery of the city, and in front of the palace of the Prefect. The art collection was everywhere in the palace-non-palace, and originally the entire house was open to the public on museum days: ‘In place of a Venetian glass chandelier, I hung a Calder mobile, made out of broken glass and china that might have come out of a garbage pail. […] Most Venetian, and at the same time unVenetian, is a forcola, or gondolier’s oar-rest, which Alfred Barr presented me with for my garden. Those who don’t know what it is admire it ass a wonderful piece of modern sculpture, which is just what Alfred intended’.11 She doesn’t even have the privacy of her own bedroom, as in it artworks and personal items, or pieces that are both, commingle: the silver bed head made for her by Alexander Calder, which, in –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 135] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire her words, ‘against [the] turquoise walls looked as though it had been made for its ultimate destination – Venice’; a painting by Francis Bacon, whose ‘background is all done in fuchsia-coloured pastel, which goes admirably well with my turquoise walls […]. The rest of the walls are decorated by my collection of earrings, a hundred pairs or more […]. In addition to this, the room has Venetian mirrors and Laurence Vail’s decorated bottles and Cornell’s surrealist “objects”‘. She concludes: ‘it was difficult to exclude the public from all this, but in the end I had to’.12 Peggy Guggenheim buys the palace in 1949, and begins to hold shows in the house and garden. Public and private spaces are still undivided and originally the entire house is open to the public on museum days. ‘So many people came wandering into all our bedrooms that we had to cordon off the exhibition. I had a house guest […] staying with me at the time, who perpetually forgot that there was an exhibition and often found himself in the midst of strangers in his pyjamas in the garden’.13 The visitors to Peggy Guggenheim’s exhibitions enter the private living quarters, and slowly the ‘house’ has to give in to the gallery space. ‘In order to create space, I began turning all the downstairs rooms, where the servants lived and the laundry was done, into galleries. […] Matta helped me transform the enormous laundry into a beautiful gallery, and then one by one the other rooms followed suit, till finally the servants got pushed into smaller quarters and the laundry had to be done in a basin at the entrance to the waterfront’.14 Plans for an extension of the palace fail. She does not like Belgioioso, Peressutti and Rogers’s project for a two-storey penthouse elevated on pillars twenty feet high on the roof of the unfinished palace: ‘The front was to resemble the Doge’s Palace, and in their minds they conceived something that they thought would be a link between the past and the present. I found it very ugly and I was certain the Belle Arti of Venice […] would never have allowed it to be built’.15 But it is not only the public that enters Peggy Guggenheim’s private domestic space. Her collection enters the Biennale of Art first, and then penetrates the culture and the space of the city, it absorbs it and infiltrates it. For just a short while, and almost by accident, the best selection from her collection occupies the most representative space of the city, the jewel-like salon of St. Mark’s Square, momentarily turning Venice’s best salotto into Peggy Guggenheim’s ‘own’ living room: in 1950 she exhibits her Pollocks in the Sala Napoleonica in the Museum Correr. Selfsatisfied and with a sense of accomplishment and belonging, she contemplates the – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 136] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire paintings lit at night from the square. ‘I remember the extreme joy I had sitting in the Piazza San Marco beholding the Pollocks glowing through the open windows of the museum, and then going out on the balcony of the gallery to see San Marco in front of me, knowing that the Pollocks were behind me. Is seemed to place Pollock historically where he belonged as one of the greatest painters of our time, who had every right to be exhibited in this wonderful setting’.16 The expansion continues with constant growth. Between 1958 and 1959 Peggy Guggenheim constructs a barchessa on one side of her garden, to enlarge her exhibition space and rearrange there her Surrealist paintings and sculptures. After her death in 1979 the Guggenheim Foundation (now owner of the museum), further expands the gallery spaces, acquiring the buildings at the back of the garden, to host temporary exhibitions, services, a bookshop, a cafeteria. Notwithstanding the diminutive dimensions of the interiors, carved inside the existing Venetian ‘minor’ architecture, the spaces of the extension look, feel and smell ‘American’. But inside them the museum is still forced to work with the city and with the former inhabitant, and like them: slowly, prudently, in a piecemeal way made of adjustments, innovations, negotiations, infiltration, occupations. ‘Se la forma scompare …’17 *** – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 137] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 138] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire – 13 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 139] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Teresa STOPPANI & Liewen DE BOECK: The Undoing of the Museum. The Manual, the Architect and the Millionaire Notes openness/ closeness penetrable only 1. ‘mu·se·um n., a building or institution through a rite of purification and access, the where objects of artistic, historical, or museum adding to the condition of breach scientific importance and value are kept, of time that of potential accumulation ad studied, and put on display’. Encarta® infinitum. World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft 5. Ernst Neufert, Enciclopedia pratica per Corporation. All rights reserved. Developed progettare e costruire (6th Italian edition for Microsoft by Bloomsbury Publishing 1980), Milan: Hoepli, 1981, p. 496. (German Plc. 7 ibidem, p. 496. My translation. edition, Bauentwurfslehre, 1980.) 2. Antoine Quatremère de Quincy, ‘Type’, in Encyclopédie Méthodique. ‘Architecture’, 6. ibidem, p. 496. My translation. 8. Georges Bataille, ‘Museum’, p. 64 and vol. 3, pt. II, Paris, 1825. Translated in ‘Slaughterhouse’, pp. 72-73, in Georges English in Opposition 8, now in K. Michael Bataille, Michel Leiris, Marcel Griaule, Carl Hays (ed.), The Oppositions Reader, New Einstein, Robert Desnos, Encyclopaedia York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1998, Acephalica, (Atlas Arkhive. Documents pp. 617-620. of the avant-garde, no. 3: George Bataille 3. ibidem, p. 618. My emphasis. & Acéphale), Robert Lebel and Isabelle 4. Foucault defines heterotopias as ‘real Waldberg (eds.), London: Atlas Press, 1995. and effective spaces which are outlined in 9. Gore Vidal, ‘Foreword’, in Peggy the very institution of society, but which Guggenheim, Out of This century. constitute a sort of counter-arrangement Confessions of an Art Addict, London: (…) in which (…) all the other real Andre Deutsch, 1983, p. xiii. arrangements that can be found within 10. Peggy Guggenheim as cited in Guggenheim, society, are at one and the same time Out of This century, p. 333. represented, challenged and overturned: a 11. ibidem, p. 354. sort of place that lies outside all places and 12. ibidem, p. 354-355. yet is actually localizable’. These places 13. ibidem, p. 336. ‘are absolutely other with respect to all 14. ibidem, p. 339. the arrangements that they reflect and of 15. ibidem, p. 338. which they speak’. (Michel Focault, ‘Of 16. ibidem, p. 336. Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias’, 17. ‘If form disappear …’, the title of a work by Lotus, 48/9, 1985/86, pp. 9-17). Church and Mario Merz in the Guggenheim Collection, cemetery can be considered heterotopias displayed in the garden of Ca’ Venier dei of time, the church characterized by an Leoni in Venice. – 14 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 140] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present Wendy Meryem Kural Shaw MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 141] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present When Theodor Adorno made his famous pronouncement that the museum is ‘the family sepulchre of art’, he made the assumption, all too common, that a museum is merely about art. Indeed, however one sets about to define a museum, its definition seems to slip away to another expression of another need defined by an elite producing an institution to supply an audience, or a populace, with a remedy for an illness it never knew it had. In 1778, as the museum became reified into a seminal institution of the modern age, it could be defined by the French Royal Academy of Architecture as ‘an edifice containing the records and achievements of science, the liberal arts, and natural history’.1 Thus, in keeping with the quest for the totalization of knowledge characteristic of the Enlightenment, the museum was defined both by the singularity of its walls and the scope of its contents. Initially intended to, in the words of Tony Bennett, reassemble the figure of Man from his fragments, the Western museum has diversified, but as an institution now federated among disciplines, it still attempts to mirror the fragments that come to constitute a given society’s Imaginary vision of self.2 As such, it plays a vital role, vitalized still further by auxilliary institutions that maintain it at the centre of social life – in particular links with education and underwriting by governmental subsidies. If the museum is a sepulchre, it is at least not a tomb of the forgotten. In contrast, most of the museums in Turkey have rarely played a lively and participatory social role; they are spaces that strangely exclude their imaginary visitor, as if indeed they only had room for the dead – and for many tourists. Through a brief survey of the needs addressed by Ottoman and Turkish museums at their moments of emergence, this paper will attempt to analyse when and for whom they have entered the realm of the living and, conversely, why they have for the most part acted as unvisited haunts of forgotten representations. As a new generation of museums comes to the fore in a country that continues to asymptotically approach Europe, what role can the museum take on? While the history of modern European museums can be traced to private collections of the fifteenth century, museums in the Ottoman Empire did not emerge from existing imperial collections such as the vast stores of the six-hundredyear-old dynastic treasury, but from collections conceptually modelled on their European counterparts. Emerging at the same time as museums were becoming a standard civic institution in the United States, the pointed difference of the types of collections in each country on the fringe of Europe suggests the very different needs –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 142] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present that institutions similar in name were intended to address. In the United States, young museums like the Chicago Art Institute and the Metropolitan Museum of Art used an evolutionary model akin to the scientific progression of Natural History to produce a narrative of the march of civilizations culminating in the modern and the local. In order to do so, not only did such museums collect originals that built this tale, they also filled in the gaps of their developmental order with copies of both sculpture and painting. Much as value was of central importance, the developmental metanarrative of history which naturalized the culmination of civilization in the West, and underscored the shared identity of the young United States with paternal Europe, formed the core of the American museum. This story was intended to produce a particular type of elite citizen, with an education and identity that could place them simultaneously in a structure of class, nation, and high civilization. In contrast, the earliest Ottoman Museum developed out of collections of military booty that had, for several centuries, been stored on the grounds of the Imperial Topkapi Palace, within the halls of the Church of St. Irene, the second cathedral church of the Byzantine Empire that had been converted into an armoury at the time of the conquest in 1453. Yet this space of storage only began to emerge as a museum as antiquities gathered from all over the empire began to join them. Established in 1846, the first Ottoman museum, as yet closed to the general public but open to elite visitors, soon became a space that doubly encoded territoriality both through military spoliate and antiquities that represented not art, but the places where they were found and the loyal civil servants who had sent them to the capitol. As the antiquities collections that had been initially housed in the church grew too numerous for the crowded church, the museum split into two institutions. In 1873, the antiquities collections moved first to the Tiled Pavilion, the first building of the Topkapi Palace, and then into a building built expressly as The Imperial Museum, in 1881. While the military museum closed to the public during the same era, it reemerged as a vital centre between 1913 and 1923 as war ravaged the final years of the empire. While the Imperial Museum quietly imagined a new social identity for an emergent Ottoman nation increasingly divested many of its territories, the military museum put forth a valiant history for a popular audience in need of ideological succour during an era of war and immanent defeat. As the Tiled Pavilion was revamped as a museum, architectural renovations shifted its fifteenth-century, Central Asian architectural elements – a columned portico –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 143] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present with hidden stairs, decorated with green and blue mosaic tiling – into a European guise, with an externalized staircase, plastered walls, and Europeanized fireplaces inside. In contrast to the developmental order preferred in Western museums, the collection allowed the visitor to travel backwards in time, while the arrangement of exhibits reminded the visitor less of their art historical value than of their territorial identity. The concern with territoriality remained a central tenet of the museum as it expanded, becoming the Imperial Museum and moving into a new building across from the Tiled Pavilion. While the museum bears a neo-Classical exterior typical of nineteenth century museums, the architecture was supposedly based on a sarcophagus discovered on Ottoman soil, as part of the Sidon necropolis that served as the core collection inspiring the construction of the new museum. Thus a neoClassical identity associated in the West with Hellenism was appropriated as part of Ottoman territorial identity. In contrast to American and European Museums, which were on occasion willing to make due with copies to maintain the narrative of stylistic development central to their institutions, the Ottoman Imperial Museum eschewed any objects that did not have an Ottoman territorial past, and arranged exhibits according to excavation sites. Again in contrast to its Western counterparts, the museum avoided realizing its initial plans for a Natural History collection, rejecting the core narrative of development implied by such a collection. Likewise, the Imperial Museum did not collect art as it developed into the present. Although its primary director and ideologue, Osman Hamdi, was a prominent Ottoman painter, the museum also rejected the collection of contemporary arts. Thus there was no claim of bringing the narrative of Hellenism to the present. Rather, the emphasis was to see the past defined as European as part and parcel of Ottoman territoriality, and to recognize the processes of archaeological excavation as imperial designs on Ottoman lands. As Osman Hamdi wrote and rewrote antiquities laws designed to stem the tide of antiquities from Ottoman soil filling European Museums – including the Parthenon Marbles, the Venus of Milo, the Victory of Samothrace, the Altar of Zeus, the Friezes of Nimrod, and the Ishtar Gate, to name but a few – he used the museum to work against the Western writing of art as divorced from space, a narrative that also divorced historical territories from the present. While highly ideological, such a museum did not intend to have an interface with the public. Rather, its intended audience was, on the one hand, an intransigent sultan (with whom the museum was often at odds) who viewed the empire and its treasures as his –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 144] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present own, to bequeath at will, and a West hungry for its history that it located outside of its own lands. While the Archaeology Museum remains, with some additions, at its site beside the Topkapi Palace Museum in Istanbul, it seems that nobody knows what to make of it. Replete with collections any of the great Western museums would envy, it has been excluded from any narrativization of national consciousness. Likewise, visitors who might eagerly traipse to the Getty in Los Angeles or the Louvre in Paris seek more exotic venues in Istanbul, and walk past this monument to a supposedly Western identity as they visit the Topkapi Palace Museum, Hagia Sophia , and the Blue Mosque in the immediate vicinity.4 In addition to the antiquities collections, the Imperial Museum eventually developed a department of Islamic Arts. If ever there was a tomb for art, this was it: objects of religious significance divested of their use and placed under a secular gaze.5 Osman Hamdi’s art suggests that he was well aware of revolutionary implications of such a space. His Mihrab of 1901 depicts a Western woman, modelled after his French wife, sitting on a Qur’an stand in front of a mihrab, a niche indicating the direction of prayer, which was one of the first works taken from a mosque as part of the museum collection. Not only does she displace the books that lie opened and torn at her feet, she sits in the place of the holy book and interrupts the possibility of prayer. Surrounded by these objects of the museum, she may herself be the personification of the museum, or of the West itself which presents a threat to the traditional role of these objects in the process of religious worship. Not simply sacrilegious in itself, the painting points to the revolutionary affect of the museum in reinvesting religious objects with ocular, secular meaning. The experiment became a central trope of museums after the establishment of the Republic of Turkey in 1923. Throughout the republic, museums featuring collections of local archaeological finds and ethnographic collections served as a staple of modernizing ideology. Yet as they culled contemporary costumes from people’s backs, declared their spatial habits of eating and living as historical relics, and pulled religious objects from mosques and into their silent halls, such ethnographic museums created the sepulchres of modernization.6 As Franz Fanon pointed out, ’at the very moment when the native intellectual is anxiously trying to create a cultural work he fails to realize that he is utilizing techniques and language which are borrowed from the stranger in his country. He contents himself with stamping these –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 145] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present instruments with a hallmark which he wishes to be national, but which is strangely reminiscent of exoticism.’7 Ethnographic museums are not alone in their ongoing collecting of dust. The Istanbul and Ankara Museums of Painting and Sculpture, established in 1938 and 1980 respectively, bear a similar fate. Focusing on state-sponsored art that gained inspiration from Western modernist movements, such as cubism, fauvism, or abstract expressionism, such work created a Turkish version of Western modernity without conveying the intellectual urgency of its models. Choosing subjects that were generally Turkish but oddly impersonal, modern artists emerged from elite families who exoticized the elements of folk culture from which they created a national identity. The work excludes the popular audience rather than representing them, speaking in a visual language without translation of a nation imagined rather than lived. While obviously no single work can support such an assertion, one might consider Nurullah Berk’s Woman Ironing of 1950 as an example. Here, a traditional woman, her head covered, irons in an environment pattered on traditional Turkish textiles and kilims, familiar in the West from their common use in the paintings of figures like Holbein and Vermeer. Here, the notion of tradition becomes combined with modernist effects of flattening reminiscent of cubism – and indeed often named cubism – within discussions of Turkish art. While such an image freezes the traditional, both in the guise of the woman and the textiles, within a modernist vocabulary, it fails to create a type of image through which real people of a tradition interact with, understand, and incorporate the modern into their own perceptions. It is no less an orientalist view, in other words, than views of Algeria by Delacroix and, after him, Picasso and Matisse. Not only did people vote with their feet by not showing interest in such art, subsequent governments have neglected the arts, seeing them neither as the propagandistic medium for which they were initially imagined nor as a means of social mirroring for the production of a collective identity for which they have been so successfully coralled in the West. In contrast, the Ottoman Military Museum that developed during the Balkan Wars and remained beside the staging grounds of Ottoman soldiers as they departed for the front during World War I and the subsequent War for National Salvation, was designed to address specific needs of a specific audience. Sermed Muhtar, the museum’s director, hired his mother to sew flags for the museum. He revived the historical military band, creating new uniforms for it and writing scores for their –6– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 146] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present performances, which included benefit concerts for refugees and for hospitalized soldiers. Museum exhibits were accompanied not only by explanatory texts, but by oil paintings that contextualized their use and helped the visitor to visualize the historical might of the empire. In a society without a tradition of large-scale paintings, such images must have had the vitality of film today. Indeed, as soon as the technology was available, a small film theatre was added to the museum complex in 1916. Not only did the theatre provide a venue for the viewing of documentary footage, it also showed films such as the ABC of Love and Disaster in St. Moritz a – all to the accompaniment of military music, making entertainment serve a double function of increasing national ardour. Finally, museum visitors were encouraged to participate in the museum by making donations from the personal items of fallen soldiers, and by signing the guestbook of the museum. Unlike other Ottoman museums, the museum was made for an audience, and addressed the immediate ideological and psychological needs of war and the ongoing British occupation of Istanbul. While the museum entered the republican period, at first at the church and later in an independent building, it is perhaps fortunate that there has never been the same need for it to play a role in the public psyche. Yet as Turkey approaches possible membership in the European Union, and even more importantly implements legal changes allowing for the growth of civil society, museums that can address the public should play an increasingly central role in allowing the public to formulate itself. While during the 1980s and 1990s, private museums sponsored by banks and major industrialists have created spaces for the exploration of art, archaeology, and science independent from the ideology of a central government, they have had varying rates of success in appealing to a broad public. In doing so, they have perhaps never tried to act as a mirror through which society can construct a wholistic view of its own fragments, made Other only to be repossessed in a Symbolic realization of communal identity that requires the interactive play of fragments more than the construction of a uniform body. In a post-Enlightenment frame, the museum can no longer attempt to reassemble the figure of Man from its fragments, for Man has entered his tomb. What has remained in his stead is people as they construct themselves into varying entireties that they recognize as the social. If museums in Turkey have failed in their imagining of a top-down national identity to create a uniform society, it will be the measure of a new generation of museums to allow for a collective imagining of self for a new –7– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 147] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present character on the public scene, the museum visitor who seeks cultural sharing not as an experience of exteriority – showing class affiliation or Western desires – but as one constructing a collective self. Postscript: *** Six months have passed since our lovely meeting in Maastricht. In the interim, new permanent sites devoted to modern and contemporary art have opened in Istanbul: Istanbul Modern opened along the shores of the Bosphorus in late November; Proje4L re-opened with a permanent display of the Elgiz collection; the Pera Museum is set to open in early June, and Santral Istanbul is set to open in fall of 2006. How does this unprecedented burgeonning of museum sites correspond with the development of a museum culture? It is, of course, in many ways, too early to tell. However, there are some signs for the future. With a category-based exhibition space inspired by that of Tate Modern, Istanbul Modern has attempted to bring together several private and public collections in a former warehouse. While its collection is in many ways weaker than that of the Istanbul Museum of Painting and Sculpture, more modern displays, far more extensive publicity campaigns, and a very chic and inviting café have made it into to a relatively popular venue. While the museum is a good start, however, it has a long way to go. The room devoted to education has little beyond paper and crayons for children, with little in the way of explanations or devices with which children or adults can feel close to the work at hand. Likewise, within the main galleries there is no explanatory information available with which viewers can contextualize what they see beyond their preformulated likes and dislikes. Within the museum, the cavernous space of the warehouse has been divided into long hallways, creating an architectural framework more like a gallery than with the nuances of flow and pause that construct spaces of contemplation within most museums. Likewise, an exhibit featuring painting and almost no sculpture or other forms of art eliminates a sense of dimensionality in the exhibit. There is little indication of how visitors are to choose a direction in the museum, which leads many to go immediately to the lovely view, the bookstore, and the café. It has been said that in this respect, the attendance numbers may be misleading: people may be going to the museum to eat rather than to look. The example of Proje4L presents a diametrically opposed picture. With a much –8– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 148] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present sharper focus, the Elgiz collection presents both Turkish and international works from the 1980s to the present. A connoisseurial arrangement for the works constructs an effective grouping of Turkish and international artists, removing the narrow national focus of both the state collection and Istanbul Modern. A wider range of media, including sculpture, installation, and video, presents a more representative range of contemporary artistic practice even within a much smaller institutional framework. Non-intrusive texts are available near the works allowing for their interpretive contextualization, and an informed staff that is knowledgeable to discuss works with visitors. Although the space is also industrial, the bi-level arrangement of the galleries creates a flow lacking in its larger counterpart. In contrast to Istanbul Modern, and to its earlier incarnation as a gallery, Proje4L has not had extensive promotional campaigns and addresses only those already interested in art and willing to go there for the art and events rather than for the extra amenities offered by most museums today. But perhaps the greatest issue at stake for Turkish museums is to take on a role in constructing a canon through which Turkish art, past, present, and future can be discussed and interpreted through both its national and international traditions. Such is the issue at hand, indeed, throughout the non-West as it at once partakes in the traditions of modernity yet remains excluded by the canons produced exclusively within the Western tradition. Much as survey textbooks have in recent years attempted to create an approach extending beyond the Western tradition, museums as well have begun to integrate non-Western works not only in galleries devoted to historical non-Western traditions, but in modern collections (such as the new gallery spaces of the renovated MoMA). As this conversation between contemporary cultures, one that became pervasive in international biennials and is only recently becoming institutionalized within museums, comes to the fore in the modern museums of Turkey, these new institutions in turn can become central to Turkey’s integration with Europe Istanbul Modern opened earlier than was originally planned so that the Prime Minister could make a show of its opening before he travelled to Brussels for meetings concerning Turkey’s accession to the EU; soon thereafter the exhibit Turks, featuring works by Turkish people made before 1500, opened in London. It is this contrast – the myth of exotic, Islamic, Oriental empires against the affectations of the modern – that frames the debates concerning Turkey’s relationship with Europe. –9– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 149] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present Museums and their exhibits may be most distant from the emotions and debates that underlie these discussions, yet they also lie at its heart. As Turkey’s new museums develop, they will play an important role in shifting the perception of Turkey from the affectations of modernity towards the effects of the modern. One can only hope that an exhibit by Turks sent abroad five years hence will come from the present rather than the past, answering the YBAs of the 1990s with the YTAs of the 2000s . *** – 10 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 150] SESSION 2: Wendy Meryem KURAL SHAW: Behind the Museum: The Purposes and Projects of Turkish Museums, Past and Present Notes 1. Chantal Georgel, ‘The Museum as Metaphor’, in Sherman et. al. (eds.), Museum Culture, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994, p. 116. 2. Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum, London: Routledge, 1994, p. 39. 3. Wendy M. K. Shaw, Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archaeology, and the Visualization of History in the Late Ottoman Empire, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003, p. 32-37. 4. Shaw, Possessors and Possessed, pp. 83-107; 149-171. 5. Shaw, Possessors and Possessed, pp. 172184; see also Wendy M. K. Shaw, ‘Islamic Arts in the Ottoman Imperial Museum’, in Ars Orientalis XXX (August 2000), pp. 5568. 6. Wendy M. K. Shaw, ‘Tra(ve)ils of Secularism: Islam in Museums from Ottoman Empire to Turkish Republic’, in Derek Peterson, (ed.), The Invention of Religion, New Brunswick, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2002. 7. Franz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, New York: Grove Press, 1963, p. 223. – 11 – MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 151] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Bart VERSCHAFFEL: Museum and Typology Museum and Typology Bart Verschaffel MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 152] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Bart VERSCHAFFEL: Museum and Typology In the theoretical discussion concerning the meaning of cultural buildings and the investments and impact of their architectural importance, the specificity of the cases have to be taken into account. It will not do to simply lump everything together that seems remotely connected and consider everything at the same time. False generalities generate spurious problems. For instance, the issue of the role of a cultural centre in a medium-sized or small city without a significant cultural infrastructure is not exactly of a piece with the issue of assessing the necessity of having a museum of contemporary art, which in its turn differs from the question about the difference between a museum and an arts centre. The question of the topicality of 19th century museum typology is dissimilar to the question of how a historical building such as a palace, a church or a dwelling can recieve a museum function. This does not imply that general questions of cultural-political nature cannot be put under discussion. Cultural participation, the relationship between high and low culture, the tension between commitment and criticism, the wearing down of conventional bourgeois notions of cultural heritage, the importance of the national past that is waning when it comes to national identity – they are important issues indeed. It does imply that positions and choices pertaining to this discussion cannot be directly applied or related to the logics of a cultural institution or an architectural programme. The (cultural)-political discussion does not have to be carried out on the basis of univocal architectural statements or strong views. Buildings that correspond with a straightforward message and are exciting at the most because their failure implicitly shows their complexity, are less than interesting. In her text Teresa Stoppani quotes Quatremère de Quincy’s intelligent definition of an architectural ‘type’: ‘an object after which each [artist] can conceive works of art that may have no resemblance’. To De Quincy then a type does not set an example; it does not show how things should be. It is not a criterion. After all, every constituent of the type is ‘vague’, which means that a type does not suggest a well-defined form and that a realisation does not resemble the type but is rather analogous to it. This very modern definition of a type is quite similar to what Max Weber meant by the ‘ideal’ type half a century later. A type is not an essence; nor is it a truth. It is an instrument. The type relates to a group of buildings or an architectural tradition in the same way that Weber’s ideal type relates to a social practice: an abstract figure that clearly generates a logic and a –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 153] SEMINAR: SESSION 2: Bart VERSCHAFFEL: Museum and Typology set of relationships between terms and as such provides a model through which events and facts can be ‘measured’ and grasped; these exist in a context and are consequently never purely ‘rational’. As such the museum, the arts centre, the cultural centre, the gallery, the collection and so on can be thought of as types, without bringing an image or example to mind. Describing and interpreting is not about recognising something as a specific type or about using the type as criterion. It is about discerning, by means of a type, the complexity and stratification of the actual building and gaining a clear insight into how the building truly – that is: within its spatial and historical context – exists and carries meaning. However, there’s more to this. The type is not a norm, but since it transparently formulates a social rationality, it indicates the stakes: what is fundamentally chosen before ‘reality’ intervenes and makes things less than transparent. The type is first and foremost a means to ponder – about the museum for instance – and formulate what is at stake in architecture. This is relevant when a building order is granted, even more relevant than when a building is designed, and definitely more relevant than when one wants to understand an existing building. So: what is / what does a museum typology, what is / what does an arts centre typology? To keep collective possession and show consensus regarding a valuable tradition? To direct undivided attention to topical and urgent problems? To make private (artistic) interventions in the public sphere possible as well as individual appropriation and ‘privatisation’ of ‘collective possessions’? Is the museum supposed to leave the visitor ‘be’ with the art works? Does it have to create ‘rooms’ that resemble living rooms to that purpose? Is it preferable for a museum to be itself or should it rather be selfexplanatory and ‘deconstruct’ itself and keep on apologising ad infinitum for what it is? The choice to make typology central (again) to architectural discussions is in the first place an attempt to act counter to the appearance of neutrality that architecture is capable of creating. What matters is what a community wants or expects, the assigning and taking of responsibilities. Architecture and criticism should make clear that there is more to architecture and to any concrete building than meets the eye and the expectations. *** –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 154] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: Our Museum SEMINAR SESSION 3: Design Competition: Our Museum MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 155] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: Our Museum: Competition brief Design Competition: Our Museum COMPETITION BRIEF For the closed design competition, three teams (of architects and artists) are invited to develop a project that launches a critical reflection and discussion about the museum as a public institution and as a public building. The objective of the competition is to carry out research into the role of architecture in the museum of contemporary art, as both a space and a place. Continually, architecture is used as a vehicle to fundamentally rethink the museum on both a micro and a macro level – not only the commissioning institution itself, but the entire concept of ‘the museum’ as well. Architecture is capable – or so we are made to believe – of extending the museum’s boundaries in both the literal and figurative senses. In the last three decades, we have indeed been regaled with the most diverse and spectacular architectural ‘appearances’. But has this architectural extravaganza offered a similar amount of thought-provoking institutional structures in exchange? In other words, did these buildings ‘imply’, bring about, even provoke totally different museum policies? Did all these exquisite bodies generate an equivalent amount of innovative and pioneering institutional personalities? How many actual building projects, if any, have succeeded in setting the traditional museum typology – architectural as well as institutional – ‘in motion’? Nowadays, it seems that most architectural investment is made in the unit of external programming: does it provide the city with a landmark, does it fit into the cityscape, does it add value to the surrounding urban fabric, does it stimulate city planning, or distribute the museum’s different peripheral functions in an interesting manner? These kinds of design qualities situate the role of the museum within a broader socio-economic, urban, and political context, but do they really provide new insight into MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 156] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: Our Museum: Competition brief the way in which the museum can function as a platform for contemporary art? Do they really develop new approaches to the – doubtlessly still compelling – traditional museum programme: the conservation, study and presentation of artworks? Participants in the design competition are asked to reflect upon the possible task(s) of architecture in the construction of future museums of contemporary art. Is there still a vital role and significance to discern for contemporary architecture? The order for the construction of a museum may still be one of the most prestigious commissions an architect can get, but is it really as challenging as it used to be, or is claimed to be? Has architecture failed so dramatically in helping the museum to rethink its space that it is now being forced for good into a mere subservient and benign position, creating flexible and neutral interiors, hidden behind gaudy exteriors? Or is the problem not a matter of architectural, but rather of institutional nature? Is it not the case that architecture has been rarely permitted to intervene in the actual spatial development of the museum programme, on the basis of flexibility, neutrality or programmatic freedom? The participating teams are asked to design ‘their museum’. They are expected to develop a project that will encompass a stimulating vision on the present and future role of architecture within the programme of the museum of contemporary art. However, the teams enjoy total freedom in their choice of type of programme and context. They are asked to develop a project that first and foremost stimulates a critical reflection and discussion on the role of architecture in the construction of the site of the museum. REQUESTED DOCUMENTS * Concept paper: max. 2 pages * Max. 3 A3 drawings * 1 advertisement page for the project in a self-selected art magazine (which needs to be specified) MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 157] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: Our Museum: Competition brief DEADLINE The deadline for the competition is 11 November. Documents are to be submitted at the Jan van Eyck Academie before 18:00 hrs. The results of this closed design competition are presented on 13 November during a semi-public jury session at the Museum in ¿Motion? conference at the Jan van Eyck Academie in Maastricht. The participants are given 15 minutes to present their designs to both jury and public. Afterwards, there will be a semi-public jury deliberation and a plenary discussion with the participants, members of the jury and the public. Once a consensus has been reached, the winning team will be proclaimed. A similar competition was organized by the Department of Architecture & Urban Planning of the University Ghent and the Jan van Eyck Academie in December 2003. For further information please visit: http://www.iconopolis.tk * Jury: Tristan Weddigen, Roemer van Toorn, Wiel Arets, Jouke Kleerebezem, Judith Barry MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 158] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: OFFICE 12 ������������� TO ENTER A MUSEUM ONE MUST OPEN THE DOOR MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 159] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: OFFICE 12 �������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������� ������������������� ������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������� �������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ������ ������� ������������� ������ ��� ����� ����������� ������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������ �������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������ ����������������������������� � MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 160] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: OFFICE 12 ������������� ������������������������������������ ����������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������ ���������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ��������������� ������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������� ��� �������������� ������ �� ���� ���������� ��������� ����������������������������������������������������� �� ���������� ��������� ���������� ����������� ����� ��������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ���������� ����������������������������������������������������� � MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 161] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: OFFICE 12 �������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������������ ���������������������������������������������� � MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 162] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: OFFICE 12 ������������� �������������������������������� ����������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� ���������� ��� ������������� ����� ���� �������� ���� ���������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������ �������������������������������������� ��������� ��� ���� ��������� ��������� �������� ������� ���� ��������������� ���� ������� ���� ������� ��� ������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������ ���� ����������� ��� ��������� �������� ������� � MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 163] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: OFFICE 12 �������������������������������������������� �������������� �������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 164] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM FÜN DESIGN CONSULTANCY with ALICIA FRAMIS and MAMA SHOWROOM ������� ��������������� ����������� �������������������������������������������� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 165] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM 2004 STEVEN HOLL RAFAEL MONEO ALDO ROSSI HERZOG& RICHARD GLUCKMAN COOP HIMMELB(L)AU. DE MEURON BENTHEM CROUWEL HANS ABEL CAHEN MICHEL GRANDSARD HOLLEIN KOEN VAN NIEUWENHUYSE SCHEWEGER PIANO+ROGERS S. BRAUNFELS LACATON ET VASSAL ORTNER & ORTNER MuHKA HERZOG&DE MEURON FRANK GEHRY ALVARO SIZA LORENZO BOSCHETTI RICHAR MEIER JEAN NOUVEL 7 ������������������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������������ ��������������������������� ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 166] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM 2004 hidden MACBA sponsors �������������������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������������������������ ����������������� 11 2004 � � ������� ������ ������ ������ ������ ������ ������� ������ ������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������������� ������������������ �������� ���������� ��������� �������� ���������� ��������� �������� �������� ������� ������������� ������� ������������� ������������ ������������ 9 Dictatorship of Art ? �������������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������� 13 ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 167] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ��������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ��������������������������� Vincent Van Gogh,Self-portrait,1889 painting Bill Viola “The Crossing” ,1996 video/sound installation 15 ��������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� ������������� present : Edwin Zwakman Jan.-Mar.2004 17 ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 168] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ����������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������� ������������������ ? 19 ��������������������������������������� ������������������������� ������������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ����������������������������������� ���������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ������������������������������������ ������������ ? MuHKA 21 ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 169] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM 23 ��������������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������� ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 170] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������ ����������������������������������������������������� 25 ����������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������� ��������� 27 Scenario 2004 ���������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������� MuHKA 29 ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 171] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ������������������������������������������������������ ����������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������������������������ ���������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������� ����������� ����������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������� ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 172] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM Shangai, May 2010 ���������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� ��������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ��������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� 33 Travel & See, 2023 Ejoy video installation by Douglas Gordon While you travel to Glasgow “Three inches” 25 minutes video. ��������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ���������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������ ����������������� 35 35 ������ MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 173] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM SONY COMISSIONS: Bill Viola SONY Street 37 SONY Shop 38 SONY Performances Art Center ��������������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� ������������������������������ 39 ������� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 174] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM VIRGIN Comissions: Fün Design Consultancy �������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� �������� ���������������������������������� �������������������������������� ? ������������������������������������ �������������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ������������������������� 41 41 43 43 ���������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ���������������������������������� ����������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ����������������������������������� ������� ��������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������ ��������������������������������������� ��������������� ������� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 175] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ���������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� ����������������������������������������� ��������������������� ����������������������������������������� ������������������������������������ ����������������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� �������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������� ��������������������������������� ������� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 176] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ������������������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������������������������������ ������ ������� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 177] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ������������������������������������������������������ ������������������������������������������ ���������������������������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������ �������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������� �������������������������������� ��������������������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������� ������������������������������������� ������� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 178] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ? MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? ������� [PAGE 179] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: FUNDC / Alicia FRAMIS / MAMA SHOWROOM ����������������� ��������������������� ������������������������������������������ ����� ������������������������ ��������������������������������������������� ������������������������� ���� ������������� ��� ������������������������������� ���������������������������� ���������������������� �������������������� ����������������� ��������������������� ��������������������� �������������� ������������� ������� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 180] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 1 MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 181] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE It is somewhat discomforting to have read all the texts around the conference Museum in ¿Motion? It has become clear the museum is not, in this age, the pivotal place for the dissemination of art. The idea of the museum has even, to some extent, become synonymous with what has been; the museum is a place where one stores and displays things from the past. Arguments have been made to treat, within the context of its refurbishment, the Stedelijk Museum as the ‘Museum for the art of the 20th century’. However much that might be a relief and absolve us from answering the question of this competition (to design ‘our museum’), until the moment that there is a ‘museum for all the texts and conferences about the future of the museum’, we are still in trouble. With the world in motion, with developments such as the ascent of the experience and entertainment economy, the rise of the network society, the privatization of government, and the death of the avant-garde, about as many new manifestations that before belonged to the museum have emerged. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 182] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 02 Following the outrageous success of Bilbao in positioning both the city and the Guggenheim as a brand, the Maurizio Cattelan Museum goes even further by using the potential shock value of the work of this greatest artist of our time to entice audiences. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 183] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 03 ‘DERCONSOFT’ capitalizes on the fact that curators are better at using technology such as airplanes and cell phones than the works of art themselves, thereby shifting the center of power in the art world. (thanks Wouter) MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 184] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 04 This same trend has even more exacerbated the privatization and outsourcing of the presentation of artworks to private galleries, which in turn have become to resemble the ‘traditional’ museum. Larry Gagosian’s Chelsea gallery is every artist’s wet dream (in more ways just than it being the perfect white cube). MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 185] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 05 Even the museum’s function as society’s conscience, through the promotion of social agendas, has been outsourced; real activist art now takes place on boats. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 186] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 06 And all that is popular, like Elvis and Celine Dion in music, eventually end up in Vegas,� MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 187] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 07 ...on the airport or in the supermarket. The diversity and quantity of venues and forms of ‘museum’ is greater than ever. ‘Museum’ is a ‘growth’ industry. Crisis? What crisis? MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 188] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 08 We think that most of the traditional roles of museum (such as collecting, promoting and showcasing) are run well by the market, with, often, no state, and no museum necessary. We think that government should still play a role, however, in education. We are happy to work at this moment on several combinations of schools with cultural programs. For our own private museum, with so many opportunities, our proposal is specific to the interests of Berend and me. It will not necessarily be used to store and display things. It will take into account the potential prevalence of object over contents. It will be a social space. It will not need state sponsorships. It will be political. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 189] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE We once had such a project in our Frueshoppen Pavilion, up to and including ecological value by recycling the produced urine into beer. But the lack of corporate sponsorship (we were talking to Heineken) killed it. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 190] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 1 For the entry to this competition we have resorted to the DIY-method. We went into the garage as would be museum-designers. We punked Berend’s unsold embroideries into a tent. The use of recycled materials gives it ‘ecological value’. It is both art object and display space. It embeds art within the larger framework of the production of images in contemporary society. Stitching becomes a curatorial activity. It renders the world more intensive and more tactile. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 191] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 11 It is a tent which transforms as necessary. The 5 x 5 x 4.5 meter cube can be used to frame 2D or sedentary art. This tent is acoustically adapted for audio and video art; it can also become a little theater for performances. The structure can be used to hang lights and other equipment. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 192] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 1 The carbon fiber makes it lightweight; it can fold up into two 120 cm long packages, each weighing approximately 40 kg. It is mobile and can escape its own institutionalism. It can travel. In combination with the fact that we are not dependent on institutional or corporate money to make it, it gives us freedom to operate. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 193] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE An appealing aspect is that the tent is not a dominant Western form, a prime concern in these turbulent times. Our design combines, formally, the Bedouin tent with the neutral highlights of 20th century architecture (Kahn, Mies & Corb). MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 194] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE 1 And because, essentially, ‘art’, to paraphrase Don DeLillo, ‘is made by men in rooms’, it can be used as a site for networking by the patriarchs. If the atmosphere gets too stale, it is easy to let some fresh air back in. MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 195] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Design Competition: ONE ARCHITECTURE ONE ARCHITECTURE MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 196] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Tristan WEDDIGEN: Just do it? Power games and museums Just do it? Power games and museums. Tristan Weddigen MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 197] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Tristan WEDDIGEN: Just do it? Power games and museums Fakes can tell the truth. At the Jan van Eyck Academie Maastricht, the Museum in ¿Motion? conference staged a fictitious design competition for a new museum of contemporary art: Our Museum. The jury consisted of five people concerned with architectural and art criticism. Although the competing teams, the jury, and the audience were fully aware of the fictional character of the event, the game was taken very seriously. Proposing projects as well as judging them has a sportive side, and both the competing teams and the individuals in the jury, of course, tried to impose their ideas. The thus created artificial situation can be regarded as a small-scale model of real decision processes within the culture market. Competition is a capitalist paradigm motivated by animal instincts and justified by social Darwinism. For the very reason that competition is a highly successful ritual – i.e. a symbolic and social interaction with real consequences – it stands between fiction and reality. It constitutes the social and aesthetic space in which capitalist democracies exist and evolve and something as unnecessary as ‘art’ plays a major role. And this is why games – and also this particular museum game – need to be taken seriously. Our Museum – whose museum? Who plays the museum game? In capitalist societies, political and economic decisions are mostly taken or steered by oligarchies of influential personalities. They often act as experts, lobbyists, or supervisors in boards of trustees and advisory committees. They constitute a homogenous network and elite of decision and opinion makers. Because science, culture, and the fine arts are being increasingly integrated into the economic system, this model of management is becoming the rule in cultural institutions like museums and universities, too. This is where part of the game is being played. As long as companies and institutions are part of society, they need to cultivate the dialogue with voters, consumers and tax payers. Advisory committees, to some extent, defend interests that go beyond the firm’s or institution’s goals, but they do not represent the general public either: their members do not get voted, but are invited. While in economy committees fulfil precise functions – such as the increase in profits – their role and competences in cultural institutions remain less clear. In order to participate in the cultural market and to influence its mechanisms, it is necessary to understand the decision games played in commissions. For example, the evolutionary idea of ‘trend’ is central to economic and cultural discourse. Advisory boards and juries are generally constituted not by specialists, –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 198] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Tristan WEDDIGEN: Just do it? Power games and museums but by experienced ‘decision makers’ and newspaper-reading ‘generalists’ who are highly receptive to trends. The propagation of the idea of ‘globalisation’ in the 1990s has shown in economy and culture that the winning position is to be at the avant-garde of what is expected ‘to come anyway’: desiring the ‘unavoidable’. But commissions, boards, and juries take an active role in the trend market, and consultants produce self-fulfilling prophecies. This is why in general it is becoming less and less possible to think of alternatives and why our societies are marked by a fundamentally fatalistic acceptance of the economic paradigm. The mass production of demand and offer has become the leading discourse and space of public participation, beyond national constitutions and party politics. Other ideas central to capitalist culture management, such as ‘strategic thinking’, ‘sports’, or ‘branding’ are crucial terms for understanding of today’s society and art. There is nothing more powerful than words. Fün Design Consultancy’s competition project is not that funny – it is entirely realistic. The perspective that multinational firms not only sponsor works of arts, exhibitions, and museums in the background, but that global players openly make the art market and run the show is only a question of time and rentability. 2007 is more realistic than 2054, and firms like IKEART and easyArt.com will act as art commissioners and retailers, selling it as a lifestyle commodity for the new global middle classes. The fusion between art and industrial design, of art and economy, i.e. of art and ‘life’, will happen in the near future – or so the Zeitgeist seems to dictate. Hypnotized by ‘inevitable’ globalisation, we are passively witnessing the dismantling of cultural welfare – because we simply did not need to fight for it. Fully aware that economy recycles and profits even of its own critics, Fün Design Consultancy has chosen the only appropriate form for the presentation of its project: advertisement. Art and advertisement intensely interact, and they might fuse into ‘artvertisement’. This is ‘our’ Western, rapidly and globally expanding language. The museum’s future no longer resides in building(s); it is well beyond architecture’s reach, situated in economy and politics. Therefore, Fün Design Consultancy did not act as architects, but as cultural managers. Their project’s playful fatalism, its idea of making critique profitable, its ironic and ambiguous radicalisation of today’s trends, mirrors what is actually happening. Their vision is nothing but a sharp counter-image of our times, the blunt materialisation of our forecasts. Hence we, as a jury perceptive to trends, liked it. –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 199] SEMINAR: SESSION 3: Tristan WEDDIGEN: Just do it? Power games and museums Public presentations of projects are daily business, whereas a public jury can be considered a critical experiment. By putting the jury live on stage – seemingly in a glass box or in a TV container – the public witnessed a process it is normally excluded from. Public art is usually made for and not by or with the public. Although its participation was obviously virtual and illusionary, the audience still gained insight into what happens backstage. Although the ‘mediatisation’ of politics is, ever since, an inevitable and dangerous phenomenon, the idea of a ‘transparent jury’ or ‘jury show’ offered material for reflection. For instance, it becomes clear that decision processes – as oral interactions – are seldom documented. A secret vote, then, sums up and covers the diverse and complex ‘strategic’ arguments which lead to a decision, so that the responsibility for one’s decisions over public matters becomes elusive. Putting boards, commissions, and juries in front of the anonymous eyes and cameras of the public would exert pressure onto its members to ‘watch their words’ and to assume full responsibility. This is how we felt, although it was a game – a game that we are all playing. The question is whether we can progressively change the rules in the course of the game and introduce more transparency. The idea that I might be responsible for supporting an ‘inevitable’ museum trend made me shiver when, on my way back from Maastricht, I discovered a museological mutant, the Art @ the Airport shop at Brussels Airport, which could just have come from our conference laboratory. *** –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 200] INSERTS INSERTS MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 201] INSERTS: Judith BARRY: What Could Make Today’s Museums so Different, so Appealing? What Could Make Today’s Museums so Different, so Appealing? Judith Barry MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 202] INSERTS: Judith BARRY: What Could Make Today’s Museums so Different, so Appealing? Institutional Critique The legacy of ‘institutional critique’ (for want of a better term) haunts all discussions on the museum and its future. While contemporary concerns are symptomatic of the current cultural conditions, they are the product of a long history as well. This record has much to offer to the discussions on the ‘crisis’ of the museum. Throughout the second part of the twentieth century, many artists – Marcel Duchamp, Marcel Broodthaers, Yves Klein, Michael Asher, Daniel Buren, Christian Phillip Mueller, Andrea Fraser, Mark Dion – used the crisis of the museum to precipitate a transformation in the views of art’s nature and potential. Their activities have lead to a certain ‘revolution’ in art practices and produced a different understanding of art as an activity with consequences. Many art writers and critics however adhere to a synoptic trajectory of the history of ‘institutional critique’ and presume that there is a homogeneous body of tried and true artistic strategies as well as agreed upon definitions of what constitutes the institution and the art object. Yet these assumptions undermine the critical reception of the work and impede any understanding of its potential for contributing to the discussion. Although many writers consider ‘institutional critique’ as the ‘crossing of institutions of art and political economy, of representations of sexual identity and social life’, they fail to maintain the dynamic aspect of the process implied, that is, that institutions and their objects are in a continuous process of ‘becoming’.1 When ‘institutional critique’ is applied to the institution itself, what is fluid and dynamic at the moment of analysis becomes suddenly fixed and unchanging. The particular ‘meta’ discourse – whose operating criteria may or may not be understood – is shown as existing ‘in time’. The same applies to the notion ‘intervention’; artists are often expected to make interventions that interrupt or expose the institution in such a way that what was previously invisible is made visible. This revelatory work is often considered the artwork itself – compare for instance interventionist strategies by artists such as Asher, Buren and Serra. However, since the networks of art practices, institutions and discourses are continuously expanding, contemporary artistic strategies of involvement have evolved beyond simple and indentifiable operational procedures. Offering a very personal point of view, I find that many artists are much more interested in setting up conditions and/or projects that engage with the dynamic networks constituted by museums, sites and/or objects. The ambition is still to cause effect and even change, but no longer to stop or freeze the situation as is implied –2– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 203] INSERTS: Judith BARRY: What Could Make Today’s Museums so Different, so Appealing? in the older notion of intervention. For too often, interventions have been merely empty gestures; they produce nothing new. Rather than merely calling attention to the way things work, many artists are actively proposing changes within the art world’s operational system. They no longer ‘intervene’ but ‘insinuate’ or ‘embed’ – the choice of words is of course crucial here – their activities directly within the site that is, by definition, heterogeneous and evolving. Many of today’s ‘crisis questions’ evolve around the local implications of contemporary ‘global culture’. Within the move toward a global art world, we face the question whether all art is obliged to subscribe to the same model, as the proliferation of ‘western style’ biennials seems to imply? Cultural differences can provide a lens through which we can challenge current assumptions on the homogenization of so-called global culture. More than anything institutional critique might be characterized as a method for placing terms under analysis and bringing those terms to the fore by ‘visualizing’ the issues that art confronts. While strategies for doing so should continuously be adapted to reflect individual conditions, the specificity of differences can be enunciated and developed toward the proliferation of numerous alternatives. Homi Bhabha’s notion of the ’in-between’ might add important questions to the debate on contemporary art’s nature and potential. In the aftermath of negotiations between various cultural spheres, art has become a hybrid form, both interstitial – not located within traditional categories – and provisional. In my practice as an artist I start from the premise that ‘art’ and its institutions are in constant ‘crisis’. Therefore all the terms surrounding art’s nature and potential are to be continuously re-thought for each project that I undertake. I want to elaborate the use-value of the crisis as a methodological procedure for constructing new discursive frames of reference. Hence, I eschew a signature style and both form and content of my work derive from a research methodology.2 The Museum You Want * 3 ‘The Museum You Want’ is an interactive web-based game. It makes the museum visitor think about what they want a museum to be in the digital realm. Should it be a memory palace of collective histories, a simulacrum of a physical space, a site for viewing collections on-line, a curated exhibition of other web projects or something else entirely? What can make the experience of an on-line museum unique? How –3– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 204] INSERTS: Judith BARRY: What Could Make Today’s Museums so Different, so Appealing? do our hopes for a cultural future intermingle with the memories of our personal and shared pasts? What kind of consensus, if any, can be reached? The project aims at triggering alternatives to the physical museum as it is currently defined; the user is asked to imagine a museum that can reflect each individual’s interests. My hope is that this project will become the lynchpin for thinking about a different kind of museum: one that is creative rather than normative, responsive rather than reactive, inclusive rather than exclusive, and one in which every user can potentially engage with what is culturally important to them. The website offers a simple polling game whose data form a unique graphical index that represents the user’s responses to a set of questions while simultaneously displaying other users’ responses to these same questions. The database of answers functions as a neural net, a continuously evolving entity that grows exponentially as more users respond to the questions.4 As the database grows, the users’ answers reveal patterns of consensus about the digital museum. Ultimately, the aim of the project is to use the database of each player as a template for the design of an ever evolving, programmable desk top ‘museum’ which will be able to archive and display each user’s own personal museum. In her reading of Andre Malraux’s ‘musée imaginaire’, Rosalind Krauss ends by discussing the plight of the artist under ‘postmodernism’ – as someone who succumbs to the seeming inevitability (read as alibi) of ‘pastiche’.5 It is remarkable that she does not return to the question of the museum and, in particular, to the question whether the museum within walls is not always also the ‘musée imaginaire’ that we each construct – as an endlessly evolving structure – as we move through the actual space of the exhibition. Her article is marked by a turn toward the (unfortunate) plight of the artist rather than to the unfolding of audience, display and spatial paradigms – as though the problems are somehow to be displaced onto the artist as a condition to be solved. But perhaps that is the artist’s role: to take up the ‘crisis’ and explore it – especially the one of the museum. *** –4– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 205] INSERTS: Judith BARRY: What Could Make Today’s Museums so Different, so Appealing? Notes categories that hypothesize the spatial 1. Hal Foster, Recodings, Port Townsend, and representational possibilities of forms Washington: Bay Press, 1986. and discourses across a broad spectrum 2. For a description of my relation to issues of museums and art works (both physical of institutional critique both in terms of and digital). Here are a few examples from my artistic and curatorial questions, see a field of about 150 categories: spatial/ Judith Barry, ‘Dissenting Spaces’, in Reesa representational paradigms or potential Greenberg, Bruce Ferguson and Sandy forms of the digital museum and/or the Nairne (eds.), Thinking about Exhibitions, digital artwork; types of possible art London: Routledge, 1996; Judith Barry, experiences; curatorial practices in relation ‘Serving Institutions’, in Bizmarch/ to media/subject matter/viewer-user; Stoller/Wuggenig (eds.), Games, Fights, perpetration/conservation; institutional Collaborators, Kunstraum der Universitat issues; surveillance; copy right; digitization Luneburg / Cantz, 1996; Judith Barry, and so on. These research categories, many ‘Questioning Context’, in Context, Nexus, with 100+ subsets, were sent to museum Philadelphia, 1998. and art world friends and acquaintances. 3. (URL: http://ica.20q.net/intro2.html All were invited to submit thoughts and or http://www.icaboston.org/Home/ questions. Over a period of about 2 years, Media/ArtistWebProjects) The project these responses became the genesis for the was developed in collaboration with first 100 questions. programmers and designers Robin 5. Rosalind Krauss, ‘Postmodern’s Museum Burgener, Mike McLoughlin and Max without Walls’, in Reesa Greenberg, Black. Bruce Ferguson and Sandy Nairne (eds.), 4. The website was launched in 2003 with a Thinking about Exhibitions, London: database of about 100 questions. It now Routledge, 1996. has over 200, as I periodically update the questions based on suggestions from users who are invited to submit a question each time they play the game. The initial questions were compiled in relation to a variety of systematic analyses of the criteria that might be considered to be in operation when thinking about a museum. They included –5– MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 206] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Conference publicity: Newspaper: Design by Adriaan Mellegers & Vinca Kruk MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 207] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Conference publicity: Poster: Design by Adriaan Mellegers & Vinca Kruk MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 208] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS Judith Barry is an artist and writer whose work crosses a number of disciplines: performance, installation, sculpture, architecture, photography, new media and exhibition design. She has exhibited internationally at venues such as the Berlin Biennale, Venice Biennale(s) of Art/Architecture, Sao Paolo Biennale, Nagoya Bienale, Cairo Biennale, Carnegie International, Whitney Biennale, Australian Biennale, and INsite. In 2000 she won the ‘Kiesler Prize for Architecture and the Arts’ and in 2001 she was awarded ‘Best Pavilion’ and ‘Audience Award’ at the Cairo Biennale. Currently, she is working on a book about art and technology, several installation projects and two web-based works. Public Fantasy, a collection of Barry’s essays, was published by the ICA, London, edited by Iwona Blazwick (1991). Recent publications include Projections: mise en abyme, with an essay by Brian Wallis and an interview between Judith Barry, Mark Wigley and Brian Wallis, Presentation House, Vancouver 1997; the catalogue for the Frederich Kiesler Prize, Vienna 2000, the catalogue for the 8th Cairo Biennale 2001, essay by Gary Sangster, Contemporary Museum, Baltimore and The Mirror and the Garden, Diputacion Granada, Spain with essays by Jan Avgikos and Jean Fisher (2003). She has taught and lectured extensively in the USA, Japan, and Europe. Jeroen Boomgaard is lecturer in Art & Public Space a the Gerrit Rietveld Academie / Amsterdam University. He also teaches at the Department of Building and Architecture at the Technical University Eindhoven. Recently he published De magnetische tijd. Videokunst in Nederland 1970-1985 (2003, together with Bart Rutten) and One year in the Wild (2004), a collection of essays on art and public space. Wouter Davidts teaches Architectural Theory at the Departement of Architecture of the Vrije Universiteit Brussel and is postdoctoral researcher at the Department of Architecture & Urban Planning of MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 209] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers Ghent University, where he obtained a PhD on museum architecture in 2003. In recent years he has regularly published on the museum, contemporary art and architecture in magazines such as Parachute, Open, Archis and De Witte Raaf, and in several books and exhibition catalogues. He edited the publication B-sites in 2000 and in 2006 his book on museum architecture will be published by A&S/books. His current scholarly work focuses on post-war artistic attitudes towards architecture and on the architectural status of the contemporary artist’s studio. Lieven De Boeck studied architecture at the University for Art and Science / Sint-Lukas in Brussels and recently completed his postgraduate research on Housing/Public Space/The City/Manual at the Jan Van Eyck Academie in Maastricht. He collaborates with Xaveer De Geyter Architects, Antwerp/Brussels as core designer, where he developed the research documented in the edited book After-sprawl. Research on the contemporary city (2002). He’s currently partner of Kobe Matthys in the Project Agency and works as a free lance journalist and editor of architectural publications. He has lectured on the contemporary conditions of architectural production at the Berlage Instituut in Amsterdam, at the Hogeschool voor Wetenschap en Kunst in Brussels, and more recently in the Studio Open City series, Brussels. His professional activities focus on research to develop architectural tools to create a new paradigm for architecture and urbanism. Fün Design Consultancy (César García Guerra, Paz Martín Rodríguez & Johan De Wachter) is an international architecture and urban design studio operating from Rotterdam. Through stimulating concepts they envisage the world between dream and reality. FünDC´s objective is to become a unified source of design solutions. FünDC operates in plural contexts that enrich and broaden the design solutions. In this sense they offer solutions in the fields of: architecture, urban planning, interior and event design, graphic and image design. For those areas MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 210] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers outside of FünDC main focus, their network of experts provides a global design concept. FünDC´s approach is interdisciplinary. Christoph Grafe is architect and writer based in Amsterdam and London and Associate Professor of Architectural Design / Interiors at Delft University of Technology. Christian Kravagna, an art historian and critic, teaches Postcolonial Studies at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna. He is the editor of the books Privileg Blick: Kritik der visuellen Kultur (1997); Agenda: Perspektiven kritischer Kunst (2000) and The Museum as Arena: Artists on Institutional Critique (2001). In 2002 he curated the exhibition Routes: Imaging Travel and Migration, Grazer Kunstverein. Office (Kersten Geers David Van Severen) was founded in 2002 by David Van Severen and Kersten Geers. Both studied architecture at the Department of Architecture & Urban Planning, Ghent University in Belgium and at the Esquela Tecnica Superior de Arquitectura in Madrid, Spain. In 2004 they collaborated with Bas Princen and Milica Topalovic on the Fear of the City project on Rotterdam (group portaits) and in 2005 they won the competition BorderGarden, MexUsa bordercrossing (with Wonne Ickx). Their work has been published recently in A+U. For the Competiton Our Museum, they collaborated with Richard Venlet and Dries Vande Velde. Richard Venlet is an artist who makes spatial and visual art on the notion of mental and physical (re)presentation. Dries Vande Velde works as structural engineer and art/architecture critic. Their individual work has been exhibited and published in major international institutions and magazines. Out of their respective professional backgrounds, Venlet and Vande Velde started a first collaboration on the occasion of a competition design for the Belgian pavilion of the Venice Architecture Biennale (finalist project - 2003). The proposal explored a concentrated integration of technical, spatial and artistic conditions, as a direct way of architectural representation. The further exploration MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 211] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers of these themes has led to regular collaborations with architects, most notably in the Venlet-Macken-VandeVelde association. One Architecture is an architectural office based in Rotterdam, directed by Matthijs Bouw and Donald Van Dansik. Matthijs Bouw is a faculty member at Sci-Arc’s Metropolitan Research + Design programme in Los Angeles. Before founding One Architecture, while still studying at Delft University of Technology, Matthijs Bouw was already teaching, contributing to several architectural magazines and building. Donald van Dansik (1950) is a Professor of Architecture at Eindhoven University of Technology. Before joining One Architecture he worked for OMA from 1988 on. At OMA he worked on many Urban Planning projects in Europe and Asia, the most famous being Euralille where he was project director. Starting 1998 he was managing director in OMA. For the Competition Our Museum, they worked together with Berend Strik. Berend Strik is an artist living and working in Amsterdam. His work has been exhibited in major museums in the Netherlands and abroad. Andrea Phillips is Assistant Director of the Curating Programme, Department of Visual Arts, Goldsmiths College, University of London. She writes and lectures on connections between contemporary art and current spatial and socio-political thought and is working on a book, Walking into Trouble: Contemporary Art and the Pedestrian. Joel Sanders is the principal of Joel Sanders Architect (JSA), a design studio based in New York City. In addition to running his practice, Sanders is an Associate Professor of Architecture at Yale University. Projects by JSA have been featured in numerous exhibitions including Unprivate House at MoMA NYC, Folds, Blobs, and Boxes at the Heinz Architectural Center, New Hotels for Global Nomads at the Cooper Hewitt National Design Museum and Glamour at SFMoMA. In addition, designs by JSA have been showcased in numerous international publications including Architectural MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 212] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers Record, The New York Times, L’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui, Wallpaper, and Assemblage. The editor of Stud: Architectures of Masculinity (Princeton Architectural Press, 1996), Sanders frequently writes about art and design, most recently in Artforum. A monograph, Joel Sanders: Writings and Projects, was released by Monacelli Press in the spring of 2005. Wendy Meryem Kural Shaw is interested in the visual effects of cultural adaptation during the modern and contemporary periods, with a primary focus on Turkey and its relationship both with its own past and with its European Other. She is the author of Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archaeology, and the Visualization of History in the Late Ottoman Empire (University of California Press, 2003), as well as several articles concerning contemporary art and modern ideologies surrounding archaeology as part of nationalist discourse production. She is currently Associate Professor in the Department of Media, Bilgi University, Istanbul. Naomi Stead is a Senior Lecturer in Architectural Theory, Philosophy and Cultural Studies at the University of Technology, Sydney. She holds a Bachelor of Architecture with first class honours from the University of South Australia, and in 2004 completed her doctoral thesis, entitled On the Object of the Museum and its Architecture, at the University of Queensland. Her research interests include the history and theory of museums, architectural criticism, questions of representation in and of architecture, and intersections between architecture and the visual and performing arts. Teresa Stoppani studied architecture at the IUAV in Venice and at the University of Florence (PhD in Architectural and Urban Design). She has collaborated with architectural practices in New York, Venice, London and Munich, and taught architectural design and theory at the IUAV, Venice (1995-99) and at the Architectural Association, London MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 213] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers (2000-02). Since 2001 she is Senior Lecturer in Architecture at the University of Greenwich, where she directs the MA in Architecture programme and the postgraduate Architecture Theory programme. Her main research interests are the relationship between architecture theory and the design process in the urban environment, and the influence on the specifically architectural aspects of other spatial and critical practices. Her work has been published in Italy, the United Kingdom, Germany and Argentina. Recent publications include Mapping. The Locus of the Project (Angelaki, 9:2, 2004) and Dusty Stories of Woman. Notes for a Re-definition of Dust (The Issues in Contemporary Culture and Aesthetics, 1, 2005). She is currently working on the book Manhattan and Venice: Paradigm Islands of AntiModern Space. Camiel van Winkel is Professor in Visual Art at the Academy for Art and Design Sint Joost of Avans University in Den Bosch, the Netherlands. Based in Amsterdam, he teaches art theory at Sint Lukas School of Arts in Brussels. He is the author of Moderne leegte. Over kunst en openbaarheid (1999), a critical study on the theory and practices of public art. A book entitled The Regime of Visibility is forthcoming with NAi Publishers in the fall of 2005. Bart Verschaffel is philospher and Head of the Department Architecture & Urban Planning, Ghent University, where he teaches Architectural Theory and Criticism. He has widely published on knowledge theory, cultural philosophy and aesthetics. Among his most recent books are A propos de Balthus (A&S/books, 2004), Architecture is (as) a gesture (Quartz Verlag, 2001) and Figures/ Essays (Vlees & Beton, 1995). Alan Wallach is Ralph H. Wark Professor of Art History and Professor of American Studies at the College of William and Mary. He was cocurator of Thomas Cole: Landscape into History and co-author of MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 214] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers the accompanying catalogue (Yale 1994). His most recent book is Exhibiting Contradiction: Essays on the Art Museum in the United States (University of Massachusetts Press 1998). Wallach’s writings have appeared in leading periodicals--Art Bulletin, Artforum, Art History, Harvard Design Magazine, etc.--and anthologies and he is active as speaker, commentator, and panel chair. Wallach’s current scholarly concerns include the influence of corporate sponsorship on American art museums and the history of landscape vision in the United States before the Civil War. Tristan Weddigen studied in Heidelberg, Cambridge, Rome, and Berlin and is currently Assistant Professor of Art History at the University of Bern. He has published on Renaissance and Baroque art, especially Raphael, and is at present working on the Dresden Picture Gallery and the aesthetic canons of the 18th and 19th centuries. John C. Welchman is Professor of art history and theory in the Visual Arts department at the University of California, San Diego. He is the author of Modernism Relocated: Towards a Cultural Studies of Visual Modernity (Allen & Unwin, 1995), Invisible Colours: A Visual History of Titles (Yale UP, 1997) and Art After Appropriation: Essays on Art in the 1990s (Routledge, 2001); co-author of the Dada and Surrealist Word Image (MIT Press, 1987) and of Mike Kelley in the Phaidon Contemporary Artists series (1999); and editor of Rethinking Borders (Minnesota UP, 1996). He has written for Artforum (where he had a column in the late 1980s and early 1990s), Screen, Art + Text, Third Text, the New York Times, International Herald Tribune, the Economist and other newspapers and journals; and contributed catalogue essays for exhibitions at the Tate (London and Liverpool), Reina Sophia (Madrid), Museum of Contemporary Art (Los Angeles), the LA County Museum of Art, the Sydney Biennial, Vienna Museum of Contemporary Art, and the Ludwig Museum (Budapest). His current projects include editing the collected writings of Mike Kelley (the first vol. Foul Perfection: Essays and Criticism was published MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 215] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Notes on contributers with MIT Press in 2003; the second Minor Histories also, with MIT arrived Spring 2004; volumes on music and sound culture, interviews and performance scripts are in preparation, as are translations into French). Welchman has just completed a long catalogue essay for the exhibition The Uncanny (Tate Liverpool/Vienna Museum of Contemporary Art (Spring-Fall, 2004); is finalizing two books on the relation between art, film and the representation of faces (The Celluloid Face and Faces and Powers); and is contracted to write a major survey, Global Art at the Millennium for Phaidon (London). MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? [PAGE 216] INSERTS: Museum in ¿Motion?: Colophon COLOPHON Museum in ¿Motion? Conference Proceedings is published by Museum Het Domein, Sittard (www.hetdomein.nl), Jan van Eyck Academie, Maastricht (www.janvaneyck.nl) and A&S/books (Department Architecture & Urban Planning, Ghent University, Ghent, www.andsbooks.ugent.be) Editor: Wouter Davidts Editorial Board: Koen Brams, Stijn Huijts, Bart Verschaffel Edition: 500 Design: Vinca Kruk & Adriaan Mellegers ISBN: 907207632X Depositnumber: D|2005|8734|3 © 2005 The authors, Museum Het Domein, Jan van Eyck Academie, Department of Architecture & Urban Planning, Ghent University With the support of: Museum Het Domein, Sittard, The Netherlands Jan van Eyck Academie, Maastricht, The Netherlands Department of Architecture & Urban Planning, Ghent University, Ghent, Belgium Mondrian Foundation, The Netherlands Provincie Limburg, The Netherlands MUSEUM IN ¿MOTION? 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1125] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1126] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1127] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1128] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1129] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1130] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1131] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1132] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1133] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1134] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1135] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1136] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1137] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1138] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1139] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1140] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1141] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1142] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1143] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1144] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1145] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1146] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1147] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1148] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1149] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1150] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1151] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1152] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1153] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1154] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1155] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1156] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1157] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1158] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1159] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1160] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1161] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1162] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1163] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1164] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1165] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1956] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1957] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1958] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1959] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1960] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1961] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1962] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1963] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1964] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1965] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1966] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1967] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1968] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1969] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1970] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1971] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1972] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1973] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1974] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1975] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1976] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1977] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1978] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1979] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1980] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1981] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1982] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1983] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1984] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1985] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1986] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1987] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1988] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1989] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1990] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1991] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1992] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1993] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1994] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1995] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 1996] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2371] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2372] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2373] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2374] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2375] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2376] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2377] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2378] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2379] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2380] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2381] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2382] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2383] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2384] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2385] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2386] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2387] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2388] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2389] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2390] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2391] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2392] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2393] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2394] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2395] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2396] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2397] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2398] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2399] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2400] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2401] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2402] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2403] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2404] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2405] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2406] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2407] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2408] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2409] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2410] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2411] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2797] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2798] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2799] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2800] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2801] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2802] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2803] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2804] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2805] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2806] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2807] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2808] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2809] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2810] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2811] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2812] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2813] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2814] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2815] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2816] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2817] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2818] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2819] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2820] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2821] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2822] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2823] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2824] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2825] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2826] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2869] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2870] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2871] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2872] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2873] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2874] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2875] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2876] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2877] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2878] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2879] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2880] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2881] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2882] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2883] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2884] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2885] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2886] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2887] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2888] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2889] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2890] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2891] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2892] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2893] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2894] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2895] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2896] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2897] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2898] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2899] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2900] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2901] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2902] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2903] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2904] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2905] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2906] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2907] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2908] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2909] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2952] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2953] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2954] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2955] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2956] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2957] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2958] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2959] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2960] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2961] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2962] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2963] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2964] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2965] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2966] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2967] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2968] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2969] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2970] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2971] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2972] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2973] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2974] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2975] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2976] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2977] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2978] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2979] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2980] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2981] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2982] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2983] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2984] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2985] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2986] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2987] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2988] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2989] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2990] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2991] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 2992] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3035] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3036] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3037] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3038] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3039] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3040] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3041] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3042] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3043] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3044] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3045] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3046] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3047] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3048] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3049] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3050] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3051] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3052] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3053] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3054] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3055] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3056] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3057] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3058] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3059] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3060] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3061] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3062] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3063] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3064] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3065] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3066] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3067] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3068] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3069] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3070] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3071] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3072] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3073] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3074] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3075] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3118] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3119] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3120] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3121] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3122] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3123] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3124] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3125] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3126] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3127] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3128] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3129] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3130] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3131] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3132] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3133] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3134] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3135] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3136] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3137] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3138] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3139] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3140] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3141] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3142] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3143] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3144] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3145] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3146] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3147] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3148] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3149] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3150] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3151] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3152] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3153] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3154] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3155] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3156] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3157] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3158] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3201] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3202] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3203] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3204] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3205] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3206] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3207] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3208] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3209] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3210] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3211] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3212] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3213] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3214] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3215] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3216] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3217] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3218] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3219] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3220] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3221] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3222] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3223] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3224] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3225] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3226] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3227] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3228] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3229] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3230] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3231] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3232] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3233] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3234] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3235] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3236] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3237] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3238] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3239] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3240] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3241] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3284] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3285] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3286] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3287] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3288] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3289] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3290] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3291] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3292] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3293] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3294] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3295] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3296] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3297] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3298] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3299] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3300] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3301] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3302] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3303] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3304] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3305] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3306] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3307] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3308] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3309] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3310] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3311] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3312] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3313] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3314] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3315] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3316] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3317] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3318] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3319] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3320] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3321] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3322] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3323] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3324] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3367] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3368] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3369] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3370] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3371] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3372] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3373] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3374] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3375] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3376] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3377] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3378] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3379] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3380] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3381] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3382] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3383] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3384] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3385] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3386] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3387] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3388] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3389] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3390] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3391] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3392] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3393] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3394] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3395] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3396] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3397] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3398] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3399] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3400] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3401] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3402] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3403] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3404] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3405] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3406] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3407] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3450] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3451] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3452] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3453] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3454] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3455] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3456] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3457] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3458] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3459] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3460] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3461] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3462] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3463] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3464] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3465] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3466] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3467] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3468] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3469] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3470] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3471] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3472] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3473] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3474] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3475] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3476] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3477] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3478] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3479] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3480] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3481] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3482] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3483] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3484] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3485] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3486] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3487] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3488] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3489] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3490] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3533] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3534] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3535] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3536] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3537] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3538] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3539] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3540] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3541] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3542] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3543] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3544] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3545] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3546] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3547] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3548] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3549] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3550] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3551] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3552] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3553] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3554] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3555] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3556] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3557] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3558] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3559] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3560] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3561] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3562] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3563] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3564] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3565] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3566] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3567] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3568] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3569] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3570] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3571] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3572] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3573] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3616] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3617] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3618] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3619] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3620] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3621] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3622] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3623] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3624] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3625] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3626] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3627] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3628] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3629] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3630] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3631] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3632] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3633] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3634] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3635] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3636] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3637] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3638] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3639] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3640] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3641] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3642] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3643] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3644] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3645] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3646] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3647] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3648] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3649] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3650] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3651] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3652] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3653] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3654] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3655] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3656] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3657] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3658] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3659] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3660] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3661] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3662] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3663] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3664] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3665] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3666] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3667] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3668] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3669] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3670] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3671] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3672] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3673] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3674] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3675] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3676] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3677] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3678] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3679] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3680] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3681] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3682] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3683] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3684] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3685] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3686] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3687] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3688] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3689] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3690] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3691] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3692] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3693] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3694] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3695] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3696] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3697] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3698] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3699] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3700] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3701] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3702] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3703] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3704] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3705] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3706] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3707] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3708] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3709] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3710] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3711] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3712] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3713] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3714] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3715] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3716] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3717] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3718] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3719] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3720] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3721] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3722] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3723] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3724] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3725] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3726] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3727] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3728] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3729] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3730] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3731] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3732] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3733] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3734] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3735] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3736] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3737] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3738] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3739] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3782] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3783] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3784] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3785] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3797] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3798] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3799] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3800] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3801] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3802] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3803] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3804] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3805] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3806] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3807] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3808] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3809] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3810] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3811] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3812] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3813] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3814] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3815] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3816] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3817] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3818] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3819] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3820] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3821] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3822] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3865] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3866] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3867] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3868] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3869] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3870] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3871] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3872] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3873] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3874] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3875] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3876] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3877] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3878] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3879] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3880] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3881] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3882] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3883] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3884] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3885] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3886] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3887] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3888] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3889] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3890] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3891] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3892] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3893] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3894] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3895] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3896] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3897] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3898] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3899] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3900] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3901] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3902] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3903] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3904] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3905] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3948] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3949] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3950] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3951] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3952] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3953] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3954] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3955] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3956] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3957] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3958] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3959] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3960] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3961] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3962] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3963] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3964] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3965] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3966] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3967] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3968] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3969] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3970] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3971] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3972] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3973] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3974] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3975] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3976] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3977] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3978] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3979] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3980] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3981] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3982] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3983] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3984] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3985] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3986] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3987] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 3988] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4031] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4032] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4033] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4034] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4035] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4036] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4037] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4038] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4039] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4040] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4041] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4042] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4043] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4044] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4045] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4046] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4047] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4048] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4049] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4050] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4051] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4052] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4053] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4054] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4055] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4056] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4057] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4058] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4059] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4060] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4061] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4062] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4063] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4064] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4065] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4066] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4067] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4068] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4069] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4070] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4071] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4114] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4115] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4116] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4117] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4118] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4119] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4120] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4121] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4122] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4123] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4124] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4125] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4126] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4127] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4128] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4129] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4130] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4131] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4132] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4133] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4134] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4135] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4136] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4137] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4138] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4139] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4140] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4141] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4142] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4143] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4144] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4145] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4146] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4147] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4148] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4149] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4150] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4151] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4152] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4153] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4154] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4197] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4198] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4199] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4200] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4201] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4202] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4203] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4204] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4205] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4206] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4207] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4208] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4209] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4210] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4211] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4212] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4213] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4214] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4215] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4216] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4217] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4218] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4219] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4220] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4221] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4222] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4223] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4224] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4225] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4226] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4227] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4228] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4229] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4230] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4231] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4232] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4233] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4234] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4235] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4236] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4237] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4529] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4530] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4531] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4532] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4533] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4534] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4535] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4536] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4537] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4538] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4539] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4540] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4541] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4542] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4543] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4544] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4545] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4546] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4547] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4548] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4549] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4550] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4551] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4552] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4553] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4554] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4555] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4556] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4557] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4558] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4559] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4560] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4561] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4562] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4563] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4564] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4565] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4566] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4567] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4568] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4569] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4612] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4613] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4614] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4615] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4616] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4617] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4618] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4619] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4620] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4621] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4622] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4623] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4624] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4625] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4626] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4627] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4628] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4629] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4630] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4631] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4632] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4633] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4634] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4635] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4636] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4637] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4638] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4639] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4640] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4641] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4642] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4643] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4644] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4645] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4646] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4647] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4648] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4649] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4650] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4651] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4652] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4778] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4779] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4780] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4781] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4782] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4783] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4784] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4785] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4797] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4798] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4799] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4800] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4801] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4802] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4803] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4804] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4805] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4806] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4807] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4808] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4809] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4810] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4811] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4812] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4813] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4814] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4815] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4816] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4817] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 4818] WHITE SPACE 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[PAGE 5151] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5152] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5153] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5154] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5155] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5156] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5157] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5158] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5159] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5160] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5161] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5162] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5163] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5164] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5165] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5166] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5167] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5168] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5169] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5170] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5171] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5172] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5173] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5174] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5175] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5176] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5177] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5178] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5179] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5180] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5181] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5182] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5183] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5184] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5185] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5186] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5187] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5188] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5189] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5190] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5191] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5192] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5193] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5194] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5195] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5196] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5197] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5198] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5199] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5200] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5201] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5202] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5203] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5204] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5205] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5206] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5207] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5208] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5209] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5210] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5211] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5212] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5213] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5214] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5215] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5216] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5217] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5218] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5219] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5220] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5221] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5222] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5223] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5224] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5225] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5226] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5227] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5228] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5229] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5230] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5231] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5232] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5233] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5276] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5277] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5278] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5279] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5280] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5281] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5282] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5283] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5284] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5285] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5286] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5287] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5288] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5289] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5290] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5291] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5292] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5293] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5294] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5295] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5296] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5297] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5298] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5299] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5300] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5301] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5302] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5303] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5304] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5305] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5306] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5307] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5308] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5309] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5310] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5311] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5312] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5313] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5314] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5315] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5316] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5359] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5360] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5361] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5362] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5363] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5364] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5365] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5366] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5367] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5368] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5369] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5370] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5371] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5372] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5373] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5374] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5375] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5376] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5377] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5378] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5379] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5380] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5381] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5382] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5383] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5384] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5385] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5386] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5387] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5388] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5389] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5390] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5391] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5392] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5393] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5394] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5395] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5396] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5397] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5398] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5399] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5442] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5443] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5444] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5445] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5446] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5447] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5448] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5449] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5450] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5451] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5452] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5453] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5454] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5455] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5456] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5457] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5458] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5459] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5460] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5461] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5462] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5463] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5464] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5465] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5466] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5467] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5468] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5469] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5470] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5471] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5472] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5473] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5474] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5475] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5476] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5477] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5478] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5479] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5480] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5481] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5482] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5525] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5526] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5527] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5528] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5529] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5530] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5531] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5532] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5533] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5534] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5535] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5536] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5537] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5538] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5539] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5540] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5541] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5542] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5543] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5544] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5545] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5546] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5547] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5548] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5549] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5550] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5551] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5552] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5553] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5554] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5555] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5556] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5557] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5558] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5559] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5560] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5561] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5562] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5563] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5564] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5565] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5608] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5609] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5610] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5611] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5612] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5613] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5614] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5615] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5616] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5617] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5618] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5619] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5620] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5621] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5622] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5623] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5624] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5625] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5626] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5627] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5628] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5629] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5630] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5631] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5632] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5633] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5634] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5635] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5636] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5637] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5638] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5639] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5640] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5641] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5642] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5643] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5644] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5645] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5646] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5647] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5648] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5691] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5692] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5693] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5694] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5695] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5696] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5697] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5698] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5699] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5700] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5701] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5702] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5703] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5704] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5705] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5706] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5707] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5708] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5709] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5710] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5711] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5712] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5713] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5714] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5715] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5716] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5717] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5718] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5719] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5720] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5721] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5722] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5723] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5724] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5725] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5726] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5727] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5728] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5729] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5730] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5731] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5774] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5775] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5776] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5777] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5778] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5779] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5780] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5781] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5782] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5783] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5784] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5785] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5797] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5798] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5799] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5800] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5801] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5802] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5803] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5804] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5805] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5806] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5807] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5808] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5809] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5810] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5811] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5812] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5813] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5814] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5857] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5858] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5859] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5860] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5861] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5862] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5863] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5864] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5865] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5866] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5867] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5868] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5869] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5870] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5871] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5872] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5873] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5874] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5875] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5876] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5877] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5878] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5879] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5880] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5881] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5882] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5883] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5884] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5885] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5886] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5887] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5888] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5889] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5890] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5891] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5892] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5893] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5894] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5895] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5896] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5897] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5940] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5941] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5942] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5943] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5944] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5945] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5946] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5947] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5948] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5949] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5950] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5951] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5952] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5953] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5954] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5955] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5956] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5957] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5958] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5959] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5960] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5961] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5962] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5963] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5964] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5965] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5966] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5967] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5968] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5969] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5970] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5971] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5972] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5973] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5974] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5975] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5976] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5977] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5978] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5979] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5980] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5981] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5982] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5983] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5984] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5985] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5986] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5987] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5988] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5989] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5990] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5991] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5992] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5993] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5994] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5995] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5996] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5997] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5998] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 5999] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6000] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6001] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6002] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6003] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6004] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6005] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6006] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6007] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6008] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6009] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6010] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6011] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6012] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6013] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6014] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6015] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6016] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6017] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6018] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6019] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6020] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6021] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6022] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6023] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6024] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6025] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6026] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6027] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6028] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6029] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6030] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6031] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6032] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6033] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6034] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6035] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6036] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6037] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6038] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6039] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6040] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6041] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6042] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6043] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6044] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6045] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6046] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6047] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6048] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6049] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6050] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6051] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6052] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6053] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6054] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6055] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6056] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6057] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6058] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6059] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6060] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6061] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6062] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6063] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6064] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6065] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6066] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6067] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6068] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6069] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6070] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6071] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6072] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6073] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6074] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6075] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6076] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6077] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6078] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6079] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6080] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6081] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6082] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6083] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6084] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6085] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6086] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6087] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6088] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6089] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6090] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6091] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6092] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6093] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6094] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6095] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6096] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6097] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6098] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6099] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6100] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6101] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6102] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6103] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6104] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6105] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6106] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6107] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6108] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6109] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6110] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6111] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6112] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6113] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6114] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6115] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6116] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6117] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6118] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6119] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6120] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6121] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6122] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6123] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6124] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6125] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6126] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6127] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6128] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6129] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6130] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6131] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6132] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6133] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6134] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6135] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6136] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6137] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6138] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6139] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6140] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6141] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6142] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6143] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6144] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6145] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6146] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6147] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6148] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6149] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6150] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6151] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6152] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6153] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6154] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6155] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6156] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6157] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6158] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6159] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6160] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6161] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6162] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6163] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6164] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6165] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6166] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6167] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6168] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6169] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6170] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6171] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6172] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6173] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6174] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6175] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6176] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6177] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6178] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6179] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6180] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6181] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6182] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6183] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6184] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6185] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6186] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6187] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6188] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6189] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6190] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6191] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6192] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6193] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6194] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6195] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6196] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6197] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6198] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6199] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6200] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6201] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6202] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6203] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6204] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6205] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6206] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6207] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6208] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6209] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6210] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6211] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6212] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6213] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6214] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6215] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6216] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6217] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6218] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6219] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6220] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6221] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6222] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6223] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6224] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6225] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6226] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6227] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6228] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6229] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6230] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6231] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6232] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6233] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6234] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6235] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6236] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6237] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6238] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6239] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6240] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6241] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6242] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6243] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6244] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6245] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6246] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6247] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6248] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6249] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6250] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6251] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6252] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6253] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6254] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6255] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6256] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6257] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6258] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6259] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6260] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6261] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6262] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6263] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6264] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6265] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6266] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6267] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6268] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6269] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6270] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6271] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6272] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6273] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6274] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6275] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6276] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6277] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6278] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6279] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6280] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6281] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6282] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6283] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6284] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6285] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6286] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6287] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6288] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6289] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6290] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6291] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6292] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6293] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6294] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6295] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6296] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6297] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6298] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6299] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6300] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6301] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6302] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6303] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6304] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6305] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6306] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6307] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6308] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6309] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6310] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6311] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6312] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6313] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6314] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6315] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6316] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6317] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6318] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6319] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6320] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6321] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6322] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6323] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6324] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6325] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6326] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6327] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6328] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6329] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6330] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6331] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6332] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6333] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6334] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6335] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6336] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6337] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6338] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6339] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6340] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6341] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6342] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6343] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6344] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6345] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6346] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6347] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6348] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6349] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6350] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6351] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6352] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6353] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6354] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6355] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6356] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6357] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6358] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6359] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6360] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6361] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6362] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6363] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6364] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6365] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6366] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6367] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6368] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6369] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6370] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6371] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6372] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6373] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6374] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6375] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6376] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6377] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6378] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6379] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6380] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6381] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6382] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6383] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6384] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6385] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6386] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6387] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6388] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6389] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6390] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6391] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6392] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6393] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6394] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6395] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6438] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6439] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6440] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6441] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6442] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6443] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6444] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6445] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6446] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6447] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6448] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6449] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6450] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6451] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6452] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6453] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6454] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6455] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6456] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6457] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6458] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6459] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6460] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6461] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6462] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6463] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6464] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6465] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6466] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6467] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6468] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6469] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6470] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6471] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6472] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6473] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6474] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6475] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6476] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6477] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6478] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6479] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6480] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6481] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6482] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6483] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6484] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6485] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6486] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6487] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6488] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6489] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6490] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6491] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6492] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6493] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6494] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6495] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6496] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6497] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6498] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6499] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6500] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6501] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6502] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6503] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6504] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6505] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6506] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6507] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6508] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6509] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6510] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6511] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6512] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6513] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6514] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6515] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6516] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6517] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6518] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6519] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6520] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6521] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6522] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6523] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6524] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6525] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6526] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6527] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6528] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6529] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6530] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6531] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6532] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6533] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6534] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6535] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6536] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6537] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6538] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6539] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6540] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6541] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6542] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6543] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6544] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6545] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6546] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6547] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6548] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6549] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6550] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6551] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6552] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6553] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6554] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6555] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6556] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6557] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6558] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6559] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6560] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6561] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6604] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6605] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6606] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6607] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6608] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6609] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6610] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6611] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6612] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6613] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6614] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6615] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6616] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6617] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6618] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6619] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6620] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6621] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6622] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6623] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6624] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6625] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6626] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6627] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6628] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6629] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6630] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6631] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6632] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6633] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6634] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6635] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6636] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6637] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6638] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6639] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6640] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6641] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6642] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6643] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6644] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6645] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6646] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6647] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6648] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6649] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6650] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6651] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6652] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6653] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6654] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6655] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6656] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6657] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6658] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6659] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6660] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6661] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6662] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6663] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6664] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6665] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6666] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6667] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6668] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6669] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6670] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6671] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6672] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6673] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6674] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6675] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6676] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6677] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6678] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6679] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6680] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6681] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6682] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6683] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6684] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6685] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6686] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6687] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6688] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6689] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6690] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6691] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6692] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6693] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6694] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6695] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6696] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6697] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6698] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6699] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6700] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6701] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6702] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6703] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6704] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6705] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6706] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6707] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6708] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6709] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6710] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6711] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6712] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6713] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6714] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6715] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6716] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6717] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6718] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6719] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6720] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6721] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6722] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6723] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6724] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6725] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6726] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6727] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6728] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6729] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6730] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6731] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6732] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6733] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6734] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6735] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6736] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6737] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6738] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6739] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6740] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6741] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6742] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6743] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6744] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6745] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6746] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6747] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6748] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6749] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6750] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6751] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6752] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6753] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6754] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6755] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6756] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6757] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6758] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6759] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6760] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6761] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6762] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6763] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6764] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6765] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6766] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6767] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6768] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6769] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6770] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6771] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6772] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6773] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6774] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6775] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6776] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6777] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6778] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6779] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6780] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6781] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6782] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6783] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6784] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6785] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6797] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6798] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6799] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6800] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6801] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6802] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6803] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6804] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6805] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6806] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6807] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6808] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6809] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6810] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6811] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6812] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6813] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6814] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6815] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6816] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6817] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6818] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6819] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6820] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6821] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6822] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6823] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6824] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6825] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6826] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6827] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6828] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6829] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6830] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6831] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6832] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6833] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6834] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6835] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6836] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6837] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6838] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6839] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6840] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6841] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6842] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6843] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6844] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6845] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6846] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6847] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6848] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6849] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6850] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6851] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6852] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6853] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6854] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6855] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6856] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6857] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6858] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6859] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6860] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6861] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6862] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6863] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6864] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6865] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6866] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6867] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6868] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6869] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6870] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6871] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6872] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6873] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6874] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6875] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6876] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6877] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6878] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6879] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6880] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6881] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6882] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6883] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6884] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6885] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6886] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6887] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6888] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6889] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6890] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6891] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6892] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6893] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6894] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6895] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6896] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6897] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6898] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6899] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6900] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6901] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6902] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6903] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6904] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6905] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6906] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6907] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6908] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6909] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6910] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6911] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6912] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6913] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6914] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6915] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6916] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6917] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6918] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6919] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6920] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6921] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6922] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6923] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6924] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6925] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6926] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6927] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6928] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6929] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6930] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6931] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6932] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6933] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6934] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6935] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6936] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6937] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6938] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6939] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6940] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6941] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6942] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6943] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6944] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6945] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6946] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6947] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6948] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6949] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6950] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6951] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6952] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6953] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6954] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6955] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6956] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6957] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6958] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6959] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6960] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6961] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6962] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6963] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6964] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6965] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6966] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6967] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6968] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6969] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6970] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6971] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6972] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6973] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6974] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6975] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6976] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6977] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6978] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6979] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6980] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6981] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6982] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6983] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6984] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6985] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6986] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6987] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6988] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6989] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6990] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6991] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6992] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6993] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6994] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6995] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6996] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6997] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6998] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 6999] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7000] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7001] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7002] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7003] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7004] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7005] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7006] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7007] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7008] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7009] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7010] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7011] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7012] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7013] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7014] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7015] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7016] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7017] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7018] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7019] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7020] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7021] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7022] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7023] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7024] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7025] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7026] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7027] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7028] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7029] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7030] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7031] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7032] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7033] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7034] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7035] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7036] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7037] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7038] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7039] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7040] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7041] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7042] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7043] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7044] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7045] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7046] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7047] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7048] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7049] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7050] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7051] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7052] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7053] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7054] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7055] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7056] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7057] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7058] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7059] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7060] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7061] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7062] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7063] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7064] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7065] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7066] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7067] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7068] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7069] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7070] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7071] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7072] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7073] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7074] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7075] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7076] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7077] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7078] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7079] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7080] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7081] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7082] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7083] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7084] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7085] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7086] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7087] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7088] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7089] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7090] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7091] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7092] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7093] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7094] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7095] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7096] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7097] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7098] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7099] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7100] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7101] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7102] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7103] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7104] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7105] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7106] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7107] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7108] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7109] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7110] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7111] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7112] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7113] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7114] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7115] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7116] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7117] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7118] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7119] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7120] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7121] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7122] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7123] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7124] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7125] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7126] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7127] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7128] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7129] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7130] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7131] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7132] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7133] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7134] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7135] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7136] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7137] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7138] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7139] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7140] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7141] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7142] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7143] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7144] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7145] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7146] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7147] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7148] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7149] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7150] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7151] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7152] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7153] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7154] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7155] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7156] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7157] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7158] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7159] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7160] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7161] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7162] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7163] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7164] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7165] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7166] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7167] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7168] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7169] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7170] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7171] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7172] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7173] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7174] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7175] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7176] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7177] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7178] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7179] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7180] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7181] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7182] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7183] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7184] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7185] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7186] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7187] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7188] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7189] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7190] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7191] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7192] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7193] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7194] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7195] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7196] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7197] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7198] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7199] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7200] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7201] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7202] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7203] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7204] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7205] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7206] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7207] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7208] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7209] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7210] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7211] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7212] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7213] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7214] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7215] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7216] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7217] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7218] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7219] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7220] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7221] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7222] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7223] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7224] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7225] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7226] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7227] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7228] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7229] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7230] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7231] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7232] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7233] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7234] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7235] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7236] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7237] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7238] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7239] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7240] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7241] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7242] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7243] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7244] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7245] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7246] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7247] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7248] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7249] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7250] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7251] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7252] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7253] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7254] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7255] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7256] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7257] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7258] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7259] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7260] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7261] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7262] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7263] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7264] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7265] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7266] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7267] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7268] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7269] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7270] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7271] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7272] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7273] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7274] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7275] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7276] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7277] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7278] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7279] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7280] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7281] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7282] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7283] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7284] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7285] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7286] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7287] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7288] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7289] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7290] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7291] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7292] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7293] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7294] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7295] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7296] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7297] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7298] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7299] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7300] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7301] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7302] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7303] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7304] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7305] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7306] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7307] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7308] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7309] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7310] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7311] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7312] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7313] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7314] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7315] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7316] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7317] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7318] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7319] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7320] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7321] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7322] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7323] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7324] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7325] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7326] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7327] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7328] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7329] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7330] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7331] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7332] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7333] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7334] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7335] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7336] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7337] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7338] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7339] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7340] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7341] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7342] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7343] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7344] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7345] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7346] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7347] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7348] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7349] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7350] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7351] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7352] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7353] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7354] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7355] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7356] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7357] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7358] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7359] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7360] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7361] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7362] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7363] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7364] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7365] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7366] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7367] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7368] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7369] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7370] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7371] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7372] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7373] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7374] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7375] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7376] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7377] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7378] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7379] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7380] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7381] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7382] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7383] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7384] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7385] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7386] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7387] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7388] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7389] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7390] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7391] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7434] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7435] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7436] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7437] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7438] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7439] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7440] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7441] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7442] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7443] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7444] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7445] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7446] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7447] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7448] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7449] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7450] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7451] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7452] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7453] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7454] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7455] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7456] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7457] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7458] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7459] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7460] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7461] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7462] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7463] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7464] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7465] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7466] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7467] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7468] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7469] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7470] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7471] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7472] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7473] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7474] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7475] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7476] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7477] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7478] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7479] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7480] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7481] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7482] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7483] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7484] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7485] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7486] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7487] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7488] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7489] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7490] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7491] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7492] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7493] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7494] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7495] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7496] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7497] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7498] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7499] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7500] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7501] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7502] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7503] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7504] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7505] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7506] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7507] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7508] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7509] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7510] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7511] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7512] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7513] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7514] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7515] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7516] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7517] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7518] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7519] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7520] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7521] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7522] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7523] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7524] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7525] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7526] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7527] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7528] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7529] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7530] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7531] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7532] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7533] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7534] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7535] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7536] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7537] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7538] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7539] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7540] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7541] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7542] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7543] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7544] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7545] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7546] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7547] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7548] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7549] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7550] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7551] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7552] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7553] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7554] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7555] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7556] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7557] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7558] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7559] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7560] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7561] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7562] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7563] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7564] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7565] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7566] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7567] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7568] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7569] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7570] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7571] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7572] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7573] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7574] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7575] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7576] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7577] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7578] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7579] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7580] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7581] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7582] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7583] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7584] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7585] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7586] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7587] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7588] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7589] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7590] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7591] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7592] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7593] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7594] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7595] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7596] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7597] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7598] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7599] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7600] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7601] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7602] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7603] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7604] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7605] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7606] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7607] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7608] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7609] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7610] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7611] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7612] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7613] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7614] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7615] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7616] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7617] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7618] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7619] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7620] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7621] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7622] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7623] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7624] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7625] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7626] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7627] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7628] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7629] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7630] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7631] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7632] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7633] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7634] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7635] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7636] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7637] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7638] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7639] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7640] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7641] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7642] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7643] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7644] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7645] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7646] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7647] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7648] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7649] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7650] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7651] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7652] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7653] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7654] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7655] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7656] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7657] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7658] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7659] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7660] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7661] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7662] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7663] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7664] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7665] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7666] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7667] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7668] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7669] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7670] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7671] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7672] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7673] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7674] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7675] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7676] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7677] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7678] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7679] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7680] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7681] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7682] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7683] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7684] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7685] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7686] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7687] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7688] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7689] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7690] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7691] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7692] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7693] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7694] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7695] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7696] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7697] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7698] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7699] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7700] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7701] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7702] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7703] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7704] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7705] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7706] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7707] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7708] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7709] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7710] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7711] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7712] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7713] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7714] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7715] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7716] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7717] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7718] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7719] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7720] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7721] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7722] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7723] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7724] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7725] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7726] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7727] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7728] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7729] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7730] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7731] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7732] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7733] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7734] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7735] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7736] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7737] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7738] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7739] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7740] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7741] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7742] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7743] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7744] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7745] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7746] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7747] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7748] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7749] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7750] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7751] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7752] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7753] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7754] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7755] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7756] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7757] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7758] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7759] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7760] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7761] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7762] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7763] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7764] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7765] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7766] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7767] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7768] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7769] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7770] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7771] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7772] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7773] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7774] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7775] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7776] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7777] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7778] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7779] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7780] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7781] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7782] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7783] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7784] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7785] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7797] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7798] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7799] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7800] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7801] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7802] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7803] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7804] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7805] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7806] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7807] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7808] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7809] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7810] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7811] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7812] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7813] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7814] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7815] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7816] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7817] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7818] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7819] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7820] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7821] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7822] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7823] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7824] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7825] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7826] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7827] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7828] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7829] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7830] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7831] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7832] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7833] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7834] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7835] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7836] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7837] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7838] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7839] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7840] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7841] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7842] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7843] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7844] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7845] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7846] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7847] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7848] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7849] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7850] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7851] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7852] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7853] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7854] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7855] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7856] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7857] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7858] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7859] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7860] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7861] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7862] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7863] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7864] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7865] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7866] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7867] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7868] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7869] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7870] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7871] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7872] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7873] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7874] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7875] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7876] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7877] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7878] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7879] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7880] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7881] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7882] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7883] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7884] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7885] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7886] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7887] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7888] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7889] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7890] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7891] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7892] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7893] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7894] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7895] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7896] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7897] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7898] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7899] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7900] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7901] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7902] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7903] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7904] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7905] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7906] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7907] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7908] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7909] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7910] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7911] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7912] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7913] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7914] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7915] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7916] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7917] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7918] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7919] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7920] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7921] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7922] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7923] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7924] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7925] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7926] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7927] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7928] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7929] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7930] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7931] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7932] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7933] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7934] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7935] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7936] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7937] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7938] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7939] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7940] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7941] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7942] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7943] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7944] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7945] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7946] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7947] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7948] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7949] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7950] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7951] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7952] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7953] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7954] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7955] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7956] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7957] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7958] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7959] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7960] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7961] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7962] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7963] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7964] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7965] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7966] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7967] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7968] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7969] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7970] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7971] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 7972] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8015] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8016] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8017] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8018] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8019] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8020] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8021] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8022] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8023] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8024] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8025] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8026] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8027] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8028] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8029] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8030] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8031] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8032] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8033] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8034] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8035] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8036] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8037] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8038] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8039] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8040] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8041] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8042] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8043] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8044] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8045] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8046] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8047] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8048] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8049] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8050] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8051] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8052] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8053] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8054] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8055] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8098] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8099] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8100] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8101] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8102] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8103] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8104] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8105] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8106] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8107] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8108] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8109] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8110] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8111] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8112] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8113] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8114] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8115] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8116] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8117] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8118] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8119] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8120] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8121] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8122] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8123] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8124] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8125] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8126] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8127] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8128] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8129] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8130] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8131] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8132] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8133] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8134] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8135] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8136] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8137] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8138] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8181] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8182] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8183] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8184] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8185] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8186] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8187] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8188] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8189] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8190] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8191] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8192] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8193] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8194] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8195] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8196] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8197] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8198] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8199] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8200] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8201] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8202] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8203] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8204] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8205] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8206] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8207] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8208] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8209] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8210] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8211] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8212] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8213] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8214] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8215] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8216] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8217] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8218] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8219] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8220] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8221] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8264] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8265] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8266] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8267] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8268] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8269] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8270] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8271] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8272] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8273] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8274] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8275] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8276] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8277] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8278] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8279] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8280] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8281] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8282] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8283] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8284] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8285] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8286] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8287] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8288] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8289] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8290] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8291] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8292] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8293] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8294] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8295] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8296] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8297] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8298] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8299] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8300] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8301] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8302] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8303] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8304] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8305] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8306] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8307] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8308] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8309] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8310] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8311] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8312] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8313] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8314] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8315] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8316] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8317] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8318] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8319] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8320] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8321] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8322] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8323] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8324] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8325] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8326] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8327] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8328] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8329] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8330] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8331] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8332] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8333] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8334] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8335] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8336] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8337] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8338] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8339] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8340] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8341] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8342] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8343] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8344] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8345] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8346] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8347] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8348] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8349] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8350] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8351] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8352] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8353] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8354] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8355] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8356] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8357] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8358] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8359] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8360] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8361] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8362] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8363] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8364] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8365] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8366] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8367] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8368] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8369] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8370] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8370] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8371] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8372] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8373] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8374] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8375] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8376] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8377] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8378] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8379] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8380] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8381] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8382] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8383] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8384] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8385] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8386] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8387] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8388] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8389] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8390] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8391] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8392] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8393] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8394] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8395] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8396] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8397] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8398] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8399] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8400] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8401] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8402] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8403] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8404] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8405] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8406] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8407] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8408] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8409] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8410] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8411] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8412] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8413] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8414] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8415] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8416] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8417] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8418] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8419] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8420] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8421] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8422] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8423] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8424] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8425] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8426] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8427] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8428] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8429] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8430] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8431] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8432] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8433] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8434] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8435] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8436] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8437] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8438] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8439] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8440] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8441] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8442] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8443] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8444] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8445] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8446] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8447] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8448] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8449] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8450] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8451] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8452] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8453] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8454] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8455] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8456] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8457] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8458] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8459] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8460] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8461] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8462] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8463] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8464] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8465] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8466] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8467] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8468] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8469] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8470] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8471] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8472] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8473] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8474] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8475] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8476] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8477] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8478] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8479] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8480] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8481] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8482] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8483] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8484] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8485] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8486] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8487] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8488] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8489] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8490] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8491] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8492] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8493] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8494] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8495] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8496] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8497] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8498] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8499] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8500] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8501] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8502] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8503] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8504] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8505] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8506] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8507] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8508] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8509] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8510] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8511] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8512] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8513] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8514] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8515] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8516] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8517] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8518] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8519] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8520] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8521] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8522] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8523] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8524] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8525] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8526] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8527] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8528] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8529] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8530] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8531] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8532] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8533] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8534] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8535] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8536] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8537] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8538] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8539] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8540] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8541] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8542] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8543] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8544] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8545] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8546] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8547] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8548] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8549] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8550] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8551] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8552] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8553] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8554] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8555] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8556] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8557] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8558] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8559] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8560] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8561] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8562] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8563] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8564] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8565] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8566] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8567] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8568] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8569] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8570] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8571] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8572] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8573] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8574] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8575] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8576] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8577] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8578] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8579] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8580] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8581] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8582] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8583] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8584] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8585] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8586] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8587] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8588] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8589] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8590] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8591] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8592] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8593] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8594] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8595] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8596] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8597] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8598] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8599] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8600] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8601] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8602] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8603] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8604] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8605] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8606] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8607] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8608] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8609] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8610] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8611] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8612] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8613] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8614] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8615] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8616] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8617] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8618] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8619] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8620] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8621] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8622] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8623] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8624] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8625] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8626] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8627] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8628] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8629] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8630] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8631] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8632] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8633] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8634] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8635] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8636] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8637] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8638] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8639] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8640] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8641] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8642] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8643] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8644] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8645] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8646] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8647] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8648] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8649] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8650] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8651] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8652] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8653] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8654] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8655] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8656] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8657] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8658] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8659] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8660] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8661] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8662] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8663] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8664] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8665] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8666] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8667] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8668] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8669] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8670] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8671] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8672] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8673] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8674] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8675] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8676] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8677] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8678] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8679] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8680] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8681] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8682] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8683] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8684] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8685] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8686] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8687] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8688] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8689] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8690] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8691] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8692] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8693] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8694] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8695] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8696] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8697] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8698] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8699] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8700] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8701] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8702] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8703] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8704] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8705] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8706] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8707] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8708] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8709] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8710] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8711] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8712] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8713] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8714] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8715] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8716] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8717] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8718] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8719] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8720] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8721] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8722] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8723] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8724] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8725] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8726] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8727] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8728] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8729] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8730] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8731] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8732] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8733] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8734] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8735] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8736] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8737] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8738] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8739] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8740] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8741] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8742] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8743] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8744] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8745] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8746] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8747] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8748] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8749] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8750] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8751] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8752] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8753] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8754] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8755] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8756] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8757] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8758] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8759] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8760] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8761] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8762] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8763] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8764] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8765] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8766] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8767] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8768] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8769] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8770] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8771] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8772] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8773] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8774] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8775] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8776] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8777] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8778] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8779] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8780] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8781] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8782] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8783] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8784] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8785] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8797] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8798] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8799] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8800] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8801] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8802] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8803] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8804] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8805] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8806] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8807] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8808] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8809] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8810] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8811] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8812] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8813] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8814] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8815] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8816] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8817] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8818] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8819] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8820] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8821] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8822] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8823] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8824] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8825] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8826] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8827] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8828] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8829] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8830] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8831] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8832] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8833] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8834] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8835] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8836] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8837] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8838] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8839] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8840] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8841] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8842] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8843] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8844] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8845] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8846] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8847] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8848] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8849] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8850] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8851] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8852] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8853] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8854] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8855] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8856] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8857] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8858] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8859] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8860] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8861] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8862] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8863] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8864] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8865] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8866] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8867] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8868] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8869] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8870] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8871] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8872] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8873] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8874] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8875] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8876] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8877] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8878] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8879] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8880] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8881] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8882] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8883] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8884] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8885] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8886] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8887] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8888] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8889] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8890] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8891] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8892] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8893] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8894] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8895] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8896] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8897] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8898] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8899] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8900] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8901] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8902] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8903] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8904] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8905] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8906] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8907] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8908] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8909] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8910] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8911] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8912] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8913] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8914] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8915] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8916] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8917] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8918] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8919] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8920] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8921] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8922] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8923] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8924] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8925] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8926] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8927] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8928] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8929] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8930] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8931] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8932] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8933] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8934] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8935] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8936] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8937] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8938] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8939] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8940] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8941] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8942] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8943] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8944] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8945] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8946] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8947] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8948] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8949] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8950] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8951] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8952] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8953] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8954] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8955] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8956] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8957] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8958] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8959] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8960] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8961] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8962] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8963] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8964] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8965] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8966] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 8967] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9010] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9011] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9012] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9013] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9014] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9015] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9016] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9017] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9018] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9019] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9020] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9021] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9022] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9023] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9024] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9025] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9026] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9027] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9028] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9029] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9030] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9031] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9032] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9033] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9034] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9035] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9036] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9037] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9038] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9039] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9040] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9041] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9042] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9043] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9044] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9045] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9046] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9047] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9048] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9049] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9050] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9093] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9094] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9095] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9096] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9097] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9098] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9099] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9100] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9101] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9102] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9103] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9104] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9105] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9106] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9107] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9108] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9109] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9110] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9111] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9112] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9113] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9114] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9115] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9116] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9117] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9118] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9119] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9120] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9121] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9122] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9123] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9124] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9125] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9126] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9127] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9128] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9129] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9130] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9131] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9132] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9133] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9134] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9135] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9136] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9137] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9138] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9139] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9140] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9141] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9142] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9143] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9144] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9145] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9146] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9147] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9148] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9149] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9150] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9151] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9152] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9153] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9154] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9155] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9156] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9157] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9158] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9159] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9160] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9161] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9162] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9163] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9164] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9165] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9166] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9167] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9168] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9169] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9170] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9171] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9172] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9173] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9174] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9175] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9176] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9177] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9178] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9179] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9180] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9181] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9182] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9183] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9184] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9185] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9186] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9187] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9188] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9189] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9190] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9191] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9192] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9193] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9194] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9195] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9196] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9197] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9198] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9199] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9200] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9201] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9202] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9203] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9204] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9205] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9206] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9207] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9208] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9209] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9210] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9211] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9212] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9213] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9214] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9215] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9216] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9217] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9218] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9219] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9220] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9221] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9222] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9223] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9224] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9225] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9226] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9227] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9228] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9229] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9230] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9231] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9232] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9233] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9234] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9235] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9236] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9237] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9238] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9239] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9240] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9241] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9242] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9243] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9244] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9245] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9246] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9247] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9248] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9249] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9250] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9251] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9252] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9253] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9254] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9255] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9256] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9257] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9258] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9259] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9260] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9261] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9262] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9263] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9264] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9265] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9266] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9267] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9268] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9269] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9270] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9271] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9272] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9273] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9274] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9275] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9276] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9277] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9278] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9279] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9280] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9281] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9282] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9283] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9284] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9285] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9286] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9287] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9288] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9289] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9290] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9291] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9292] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9293] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9294] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9295] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9296] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9297] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9298] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9299] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9300] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9301] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9302] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9303] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9304] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9305] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9306] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9307] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9308] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9309] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9310] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9311] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9312] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9313] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9314] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9315] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9316] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9317] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9318] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9319] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9320] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9321] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9322] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9323] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9324] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9325] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9326] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9327] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9328] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9329] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9330] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9331] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9332] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9333] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9334] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9335] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9336] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9337] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9338] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9339] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9340] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9341] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9342] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9343] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9344] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9345] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9346] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9347] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9348] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9349] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9350] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9351] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9352] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9353] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9354] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9355] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9356] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9357] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9358] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9359] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9360] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9361] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9362] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9363] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9364] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9365] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9366] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9367] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9368] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9369] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9370] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9371] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9372] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9373] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9374] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9375] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9376] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9377] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9378] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9379] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9380] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9381] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9382] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9383] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9384] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9385] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9386] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9387] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9388] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9389] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9390] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9391] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9392] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9393] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9394] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9395] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9396] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9397] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9398] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9399] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9400] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9401] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9402] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9403] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9404] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9405] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9406] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9407] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9408] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9409] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9410] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9411] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9412] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9413] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9414] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9415] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9416] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9417] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9418] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9419] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9420] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9421] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9422] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9423] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9424] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9425] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9426] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9427] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9428] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9429] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9430] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9431] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9432] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9433] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9434] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9435] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9436] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9437] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9438] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9439] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9440] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9441] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9442] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9443] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9444] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9445] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9446] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9447] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9448] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9449] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9450] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9451] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9452] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9453] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9454] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9455] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9456] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9457] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9458] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9459] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9460] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9461] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9462] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9463] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9464] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9465] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9466] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9467] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9468] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9469] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9470] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9471] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9472] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9473] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9474] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9475] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9476] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9477] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9478] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9479] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9480] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9481] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9482] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9483] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9484] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9485] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9486] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9487] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9488] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9489] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9490] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9491] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9492] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9493] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9494] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9495] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9496] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9497] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9498] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9499] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9500] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9501] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9502] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9503] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9504] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9505] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9506] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9507] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9508] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9509] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9510] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9511] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9512] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9513] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9514] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9515] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9516] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9517] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9518] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9519] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9520] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9521] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9522] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9523] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9524] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9525] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9526] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9527] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9528] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9529] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9530] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9531] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9532] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9533] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9534] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9535] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9536] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9537] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9538] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9539] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9540] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9541] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9542] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9543] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9544] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9545] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9546] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9547] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9548] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9591] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9592] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9593] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9594] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9595] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9596] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9597] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9598] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9599] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9600] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9601] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9602] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9603] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9604] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9605] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9606] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9607] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9608] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9609] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9610] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9611] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9612] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9613] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9614] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9615] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9616] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9617] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9618] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9619] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9620] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9621] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9622] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9623] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9624] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9625] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9626] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9627] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9628] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9629] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9630] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9631] WHITE SPACE 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WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9674] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9675] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9676] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9677] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9678] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9679] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9680] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9681] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9682] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9683] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9684] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9685] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9686] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9687] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9688] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9689] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9690] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9691] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9692] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9693] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9694] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9695] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9696] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9697] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9698] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9699] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9700] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9701] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9702] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9703] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9704] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9705] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9706] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9707] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9708] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9709] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9710] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9711] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9712] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9713] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9714] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9715] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9716] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9717] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9718] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9719] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9720] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9721] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9722] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9723] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9724] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9725] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9726] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9727] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9728] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9729] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9730] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9731] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9732] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9733] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9734] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9735] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9736] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9737] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9738] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9739] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9740] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9741] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9742] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9743] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9744] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9745] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9746] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9747] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9748] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9749] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9750] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9751] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9752] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9753] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9754] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9755] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9756] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9757] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9758] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9759] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9760] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9761] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9762] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9763] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9764] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9765] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9766] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9767] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9768] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9769] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9770] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9771] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9772] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9773] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9774] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9775] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9776] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9777] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9778] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9779] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9780] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9781] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9782] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9783] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9784] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9785] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9786] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9787] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9788] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9789] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9790] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9791] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9792] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9793] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9794] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9795] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9796] WHITE SPACE [PAGE 9797] WHITE SPACE 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