Strange what one remembers at museums. With all the masterpieces at the Louvre, I remember best an old wood 12th century crucifixion sculpture in the Medieval section. At the Denver Art Museum, I remember best a painting where a herd of stampeding buffalo fade into the mist, an 1862 painting that eerily foretold the near extinction already underway.
And then there was a stack of folded blankets at least twenty feet high, a modern totem created of a Native American artist. Each blanket is tagged with the story of its history in the life of the donor. A community’s story, told family by family.
The word “museum” is dusty, passive, old, dull. Wrong.