Visiting the Noguchi Museum recently, I was struck by the difficulty of sculpture as art: how it's constrained by its physical presence to a degree that other media, like music, painting, and poetry, are not.

It is full of work convinced that the world as we know it is doddering towards its end, but gives little consideration to the possibility that it is this old New Museum and old new media art, not the world around it, that has run its course.

It’s hard to be the Museum of Modern Art when the modern has become a thing of the past and a rather suspect thing at that.

But what of the museums themselves? The artworks, their placement, the hallways, the exhibits, the choreography of passing through?

Frédéric sees the desk where his mother, now passed, did her business, shoved unopened mail, searched for a pen, locked away in a glass case. “Doesn't it seem caged?”