There is a wild iconoclasm that smashes statues, gouges out eyes, and uses the debris to build new, better, bigger monuments. There is a gentler iconoclasm that sees beauty in rubble, and finds in the spectacle of dereliction the consoling reassurance that life carries on. There is a more muted kind of iconoclasm that embalms and catalogues the pieces. In the museum, the things can be divested of their magic and put out of circulation while still being appreciated as fine art. A yet more furtive iconoclasm breaks the spell of this enjoyment by turning this pleasure to subtle profit. The museum becomes a warehouse of examples that can be scrutinized as a vehicle of philosophical truth.

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