Security Check

Last spring at the New Museum, I saw a man walk right into Janine Antoni’s Saddle, a sculpture that was created by fitting a cowhide around a mold of the artist’s body. The artist has said that the removal of the mold—the subsequent hollowing out of the cowhide—is an important element of the piece; this hollowness was palpable in the ease with which the piece shifted on the floor. Those of us who witnessed this gaffe—and who among us hasn’t had a near miss at some point?—cringed first, and then looked immediately to the guard who stood not fifteen feet away. I don’t know what we expected—swift action of some sort, I suppose. Would the guard reprimand the museumgoer for his clumsiness? Would she fashion a makeshift barrier to protect the sculpture from further incursions? Would she radio her superiors to alert them to the imminent need for conservation (or at least a good lookover)? The guard in question did none of these things. At first I was surprised, but her inaction actually makes a lot of sense. First, the damage was done; the sculpture could not be un-kicked. Second, why should she be expected to incriminate herself by reporting the accident or drawing further attention to it? 

I remembered this incident after a recent visit to the David Zwirner Gallery in Chelsea where a group of 1989 Donald Judd sculptures are being shown. The group comprises twelve open boxes, each of which is unique in its interior configuration and color scheme. From a distance, the colors, which reflect off the interior walls of the aluminum boxes, seem to take on a weight of their own, but what you really want to do is get close and look inside. The first time I tried to do this I was warned by a security guard not to get too close. I was hardly about to climb into the box, but I backed off. In the adjacent gallery, I got about as close as I had before—close enough to see the interiors of the boxes but not so close that I came into contact with them. The friendly guard in this gallery offered suggestions for viewing the sculptures—from a distance, of course. He also pointed out one box with black scuff marks made by a woman whose bag had brushed against it. This was going to be an extremely expensive repair, he said, and the guards had caught some flack for allowing it to happen. This explained their extra vigilance, but no amount of vigilance—short of physical barriers—can forestall what happened at the New Museum or at the David Zwirner Gallery. Nonetheless, the security guard, who seems to be a greater presence as contemporary art galleries take on ever-more ambitious shows, is charged with this difficult task.

The museum or art gallery guard’s role is a strange one—fraught, even. In museums in particular the guard is tasked with keeping viewers in line, but also with giving directions and even answering questions about works on view. Some guards—and I have seen this frequently at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—are eager to volunteer knowledge or observations about a particular work of art. I have seen guards draw closer to tour groups to gather information. I remember being charmed and surprised when I first learned that Brice Marden and Mel Bochner worked as guards at the Jewish Museum in the 1960s. In fact, this is perfectly understandable; guards are among the individuals who spend the most time with a given group of artworks. It should hardly be surprising, then, that they have something to offer. It is generally understood that their primary contribution is surveillance, and the self-imposed decorum that comes with it. It’s nice to be reminded, as I was by the friendly and engaged guard at David Zwirner, that guards are uniquely positioned to watch not only the visitors, but the works themselves.