Long
the bellwether of twentieth-century painting and sculpture, the
Museum of Modern Art has had a substantial influence on how we view
the modernist
enterprise. Under the guidance of Alfred Barr,
MOMA’s founding director, the museum rooted itself
in the European avant-garde.
Despite the many shifts—ideological as well as aesthetic—that it
has undergone in recent years, the museum has, more or less, remained
true to Barr’s vision. Which is not to say that MOMA is without
important shortcomings. Who hasn’t bemoaned the rigidity of MOMA’s
masterplan, one that compromises the complexity of history for a
streamlined and steamrolling succession of -isms?
Consider the situation of
those artists whose
work is hung outside of the galleries, in the hallways of the
museum. Occupying a kind of limbo, half in and half out of the museum,
they are nonetheless
deemed significant enough for transitory acknowledgment. Museums
can’t display every object in their collections, of course, but
sometimes recognition is indistinguishable from condescension. It is
worth recalling that until recently Max Beckmann’s Departure was
installed in MOMA’s second-floor hallway
near the restrooms.

Similarly, Richard Diebenkorn’s Ocean Park No. 115 (1979) has been
exhibited—
when it is exhibited—in a stairwell on MOMA’s third
floor. This is a thankless spot for any artist, but given a painter
of Diebenkorn’s caliber, such placement is inexplicable. Shunting
his work off to a nook following the galleries dedicated to Abstract
Expressionism, Pop, and Minimalism makes chronological sense, given
that Diebenkorn (1922–1993)