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.