Daniel Berset, "Broken Chair" (photo by MHM-com/Wikimedia)

Daniel Berset, “Broken Chair” (photo by MHM-com/Wikimedia)

“Sculpture is something you bump into when you back up to look at a painting,” someone famously quipped once — maybe Ad Reinhardt or Barnett Newman.

In my defense, they were mesmerizing paintings! Or mesmerizing drawings, rather. In order to get a fuller view, I backed towards one of the benches the gallery had kindly provided for contemplation. I sat down.

“That’s not a bench!” my husband hissed.

Everything I knew about material reality suddenly changed. Jumping up, I heard a sound like a graham cracker snapping. A chip of material — plaster, cement, foam? — crumbled off the corner of the sculpture onto the floor. It was one of two pale, rectangular sculptures in the gallery. They were only suggestive of museum benches.

My husband was aghast. I was aghast. I was not supposed to be one of those people who stumbles into Picasso’s “The Actor” or stows their children in a Judd “Untitled.” Not because I count myself among the culturati, but because I’m cautious. I’m satisfied to get a little less pleasure out of life, so long as I never get into trouble, have to make amends, or feel guilty. Gaucherie and accidental vandalism are for other, more reckless people.

Years ago, when a friend and I were looking at a glass work by Dale Chihuly, she leaned against the vitrine. The carbuncle inside started rocking violently back and forth — skree, skree … skree, skreeee.  Neither of us breathed until, gleaming, it creaked to a silent, unscathed rest. We snuck out of the gallery.  Flexing my schadenfreude, I said, “I’m glad I didn’t do that.” It never occurred to me that I might, someday.

Back at the gallery, I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. The detritus remained on the floor, like a tiny earthwork installation. I tiptoed away, trying to look innocent. I was sweating. The blood rushed to my brain as I plotted our escape. Although the judgment of the New York intelligentsia was weighing upon me, Karl and I were alone in the room, and nobody else had seen me do it. We could stroll casually out the door, then break into a run! They’d never find us among the crowds on the High Line!

Unfortunately, my conscience chose that moment to speak up. Conscience said that no great exertion of virtue was required, but I had to be accountable for my actions. To behave like an adult. If I didn’t, there would be consequences: The artist might lose a sale. The gallery staff might get blamed for the damage and even, I thought, fired. People’s livelihoods were at stake.

I stumbled toward the reception desk and told an employee that I was sorry, but I had accidentally broken one of the sculptures in the next room. Her eyebrows rose; I described the damage. She said, “Thank you for telling me.” I repeated, “I’m very, very sorry.”

The employee let me depart the gallery on my own recognizance. She was so nice! And so was I! I had done the right thing and gotten my reward. “I’m so glad I confessed!” I cried when we got outside. This was my kind of ethics.

Karl wiped his forehead. “It turned out okay in the end.”

“Did you want me not to tell?”

Of course I didn’t want you to tell!  But … I wasn’t going to interfere with the dictates of your conscience.”

We continued on to another gallery exhibiting massive iron sculptures encrusted with oil and filth. I had never smelled such magnificent filth before. I loved art!

But the employee from the last gallery had been searching the streets for me. She opened the door, zeroed in on me, and dropped her manhunt face for a Good Cop smile. Except that Good Cop had already let me go, which meant this one could only be … “Would you mind coming back?” she asked.  Her tone suggested that if I came of my own free will, she wouldn’t have to use force. “My boss wants to speak to you.”

I followed her herky-jerkily, half my body restraining the other half from running away. Karl lagged behind, as though reluctant to witness the spectacle of my humiliation. My warden told me to wait at reception until her boss got off the phone, to interrogate me about the liability.

I grew up in a household where you didn’t allow people on your lawn, never mind inside, for fear that they’d lose a limb and sue you for everything you have. “Liability!” is what my mother threatened me with when I was a teenager, to scare me away from sex, drugs, and booze. “Liability!” she moaned, when I suggested a home wedding.

“What does that mean, exactly?” I quavered, hoping that the gallery had an insurance policy that would cheerfully and comprehensively cover everything.

“Well, you did just damage an $8,000 work of art,” said the warden.

I thought: at least it wasn’t an $80,000 work of art, or $800,000.

I thought: my income last year was $26, which I won from a foreign transaction fee class-action suit. It had been an iffy year for my writing. Karl, who works as an assistant professor, is the sole breadwinner in our household, and we could not afford an $8,000 (plus taxes) work of art.

I thought: maybe I shouldn’t have tried to save the employees’ jobs.

I, The Clown Who Broke the Sculpture with Her Ass, waited. Chidden like a dog that isn’t housebroken, except if I had peed on the floor, instead of breaking the sculpture, that would have been semi-transgressive. Why hadn’t I run away? Why had I confessed? Why hadn’t the gallery taped off the floor around the sculpture, posted a placard, hired a guard, done anything so that people seeing the thing wouldn’t be reminded so forcibly of, say, benches?

Kilmainham Gaol, a former panopticon-style prison

Kilmainham Gaol prison (photo by CaptainHaddock/Wikimedia)

The warden returned: the Grand Inquisitor was still on the phone. “You can leave your name, address, phone number, and email, so he can contact you later.” She pushed a pad and pen across the desk, showing me the instruments of my torture.

One isn’t supposed to feel martyred just for behaving like a responsible adult, but this was my Gethsemane It’s hard enough to behave decently once, without having to keep proving it. I’d already imagined the dozen ways that doing so would screw us over; it would be even dumber than sitting on the sculpture in the first place! We couldn’t afford $8,000 worth of virtue. When had I ever been so high-minded before?

I picked up the pen. I knew what to do. I would become a different person: Cecilia Hsiao, which sounds far more plausibly Asian than the Anglo-Irish name my parents gave their adopted Korean baby.  Cecilia Hsiao, who breaks art, lives in Park Slope (not my neighborhood), and has a 718 number (not my area code). Cecilia Hsiao could afford to save us, and she really wanted to own a cement sculpture-bench.

I imagined telling the warden, “It’s pronounced ‘She-ow.’”

There’s no reason to self-incriminate after you’ve plotted your escape.

But. Eventually the gallery would realize that Cecilia Hsiao wasn’t real. They would release the story — maybe even security camera footage — to the press. Somebody would recognize my ugly hat and turn me in. They would expose me not just as a dipstick, but also as a liar, fraud, and coward who’d scapegoated her imaginary Chinese friend. My Chinese-American friends would beat me up. Strangers would mock me on Twitter. They might even put my picture on Gawker, and then I’d be finished in this town. The Gawker comments section was my panopticon.

Sniffling, I printed my real contact info. Karl sighed.

Afterwards, in the street, I shivered and wept. “I’m so stupid! I shouldn’t have sat on it! I shouldn’t have told them I did it! I shouldn’t have given my real name!”

Karl made a strangled sound. “The stupid thing to do … was also the right thing to do.”



We did not go to a restaurant for our post-gallery-hopping dinner; we could no longer afford dinner.  Karl pulled himself together to console me. “At least they can’t take away my job. They can’t take our home. Don’t worry. We’ll just withdraw all our retirement money and never be able to retire.”

Maybe the gallery would give me a job, like washing dishes when you can’t pay your restaurant bill. They already knew I was honest — that might make up for my lack of an arts background. I’d like to work in a gallery! We visit 30–40 a month, along with major museum shows, many more minor ones, a number of festivals and open studio days. We love the sheer bounty of art in our city.

Then I realized that in all this, I hadn’t given a single thought to the sculpture as a sculpture. I was a philistine. I had broken the pact that art-lovers make with artists, to see art as art. Not to walk past it, or be one of those people who gaze at it and see only a void, garbage, scams, hipsterism, things that their kids or cats or the past 50 years of praxis have done better. People who are so busy trying to see through art that they don’t see it at all, much less with curiosity, openness, or understanding.

I often don’t understand art, but I love walking into a space where somebody has made something, changed something, mediated the ordinary world by saying I was here and I did thisI did it for you, so that you would feel the world was more exciting and wonderful. I love the elements of surprise and transformation, of being transformed myself.

But now that I had gone and been a philistine, I owed an even bigger debt: I owed the artist an apology. Not just for breaking his sculpture, but for not having seen it. I wish my post-damage scrutiny — the hardest I’d ever looked at an artwork — had been in the service of his aesthetic mission, rather than of saving my hide. But I can truly say I will never think harder about a work’s quiddity, the space it occupies in a room and in time, the fragility of it, the thought and labor the artist put into it. I will never forget it.

It’s been five months, and the gallery has not called, written, or summonsed me. Maybe they have a slow lawyer. Maybe their insurer is giving them hell. Maybe they called in a conservator who spackled the corner back on. Maybe the artist said, “The work’s meaning is in the accumulation of interactions and reactions, so everything’s all right.” Three friends have suggested to me, “Maybe it was a performance piece tracking everybody who sat on it and their responses?” Another said, “Maybe they’re afraid you’ll sue them! That bench could have hurt you!”

Or maybe they lost my contact info and are desperate to find me. In that case, I ought to phone them. Karl says, “Why don’t you just go commit seppuku on their doorstep?”

I remind him that he’s the one who taught me about Derrida and infinite responsibility:

The surplus of responsibility of which I was just speaking will never authorize any silence. I repeat: responsibility is excessive or it is not a responsibility. A limited, measured, calculable, rationally distributed responsibility is already the becoming-right of morality; it is at times also, in the best hypothesis, the dream of every good conscience, in the worst hypothesis, of the small or grand inquisitors.

Responsibility — it goes on and on, and on and on …

I haven’t yet made that phone call, or my apology. Let this cup pass from me! So, gallery folks and artist: this is my real name, and I’m (kind of) letting you know it a second time, and I am really, really sorry.  You can look me up. I’d rather you didn’t. But if you must, please hire me. I promise never to go near the art.

Alison Kinney is the author of Hood (Bloomsbury, 2016). Her writing has appeared previously in Hyperallergic and online at The Paris Review Daily, The Atlantic, Lapham's Quarterly, The New York Times,...

20 replies on “Philistine, or What Happens When You Break a Sculpture in a Gallery”

  1. 1. You did nothing wrong. It is the gallery’s responsibility to protect the art they exhibit (and ship, and loan, and handle). They did not do this. They could have, as you said, put down marker lines or have a guard. They could have put an info card close by. They could have displayed a statement at the entrance of the gallery stating the nature of the work and exhibit.

    2. They will not sue you. That would (a) screw their reputation among artists as not knowing how to protect art and (b) show collectors they are petty assholes. That is bad PR. Now that this is a Hyperallergic story, they are hoping – more than anything in the world – you do not say the name of their gallery. They are probably horrified, right now, that the Hyperallergic editors know who they are. They will never contact you.

    3. If they are dumb enough to sue you or even suggest you pay them one penny, contact Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts, based here in NYC. They handle cases above small claims court and you qualify at $8,000.

    4. The artist is likely alive and can still make work. They got paid $4,000 for the work you squashed. This is the standard 50% as if it was a sale (and that’s what artists get paid when their work is ruined, by contract).

    5. If the work was part of an edition, it can be replaced and sold again. They wipe that one from the series and give it the appropriate number (e.g., 7/10 or whatever). This happens very often when works are damaged in shipping or in the back rooms or when sat on.

    6. Don’t work in a gallery if you want to see art. Everyone who works in galleries work gallery hours and never see other galleries. Next time you are in a gallery, ask the receptionist if there are other good shows up. They won’t know.

    7. Cool article. Go have a beer. Happy Labor Day.

  2. Bless your heart. I haven’t done anything similar, but one day I will, I’m sure, and I will go through all of the same dilemmas.

    If it helps, so much of my own art work is happy accidents, and I’m actually very relaxed about it. I’ve worked in tiny studios, in a corner of my bedroom with no studio at all, in a hair salon-cum-studio- in a situation where you do not have your own space, accidents inevitably happen- a spilled cup of coffee, a footprint, a cat with muddy paws- while it is frustrating, it is also understood that as other people are taking up MY CREATIVE SPACE, I am also taking up what should be theirs, you either laugh and shrug it off or make it an interesting piece of the work! I have the same philosophy when putting my art in public spaces- am I worried a frame will smash or a sculpture might break? Sure. Am I going to blame someone who had a genuine accident? (NOT vandalism.) No! I’d be worried they had hurt themselves!

  3. Why would this site hire a writer who is too lazy even to Google the source of the quote in her lede? This simply runs on and on when it should have been briskly edited. There’s a nifty little story here, but it’s way too long…..

      1. But the piece on the whole is not satire; it is straightorward, earnest reporting–not bad but long-winded. Do you and your writers know the difference between, say, Tom Wolfe and David Remnick? Her failure to know her source simply comes across as feather-brained, not knowingly ironic. Still, ya gotta admire an editor who sticks up for his writers.

        1. Well, now I learned something new … because it seems like the quote is still contested! (read the thread) Our Senior Editor edited this one (I didn’t) and just assumed that when I read it, so I stand corrected.

          1. I offer no apologies if I believe that good editing and brevity might make for a better story. It’s called journalism, and you seldom find it on the ‘net. And I do not think that satire and reporting should be confused. Karl Steel could stand to read more critically.

          2. You keep mistaking the nature of this piece. It’s a personal essay, not a reporter reporting on themselves, bringing to light a situation that needs public attention. “THIS JUST IN: I SAT ON A SCULPTURE SIX MONTHS AGO.” She knows the gallery and the artist, and that you don’t is for a reason; it’s a humor piece.

            It’s not Anderson Cooper. It’s David Sedaris. There is a difference.

  4. Don’t worry yourself for a minute. All galleries/museums have umbrella policy insurance coverage for exactly these sorts of things. They probably just needed your contact info for their records or in case the insurers made a fuss. I’m sure $4000 is still far lower than their deductible. They may not inform the insurers at all, and just pay for restoration themselves, to keep their premium down. Plenty of artwork gets damaged on display or in transit all the time – these costs are built into the costs of being open to the public and/or hosting an exhibition. That’s also the reason why some museums no longer allow certain artworks to travel (paint flakes off, for example).

  5. An $8,000 work of “art” that looks like a bench? This tells me more about modern “art” than it does about the unfortunate author.

  6. This made me think. I always assumed that people walked around galleries with quiet reverence, admiring the work on display. Now I’ve realised that we are actually creeping around because we are all scared of breaking something.

  7. Much more interesting/provocative is the well documented case of the Ai WeiWei vase that was dropped as a protest by a local artist in the US: http://www.newyorker.com/business/currency/the-case-of-the-million-dollar-broken-vase / http://www.sueddeutsche.de/panorama/zerstoerte-ai-weiwei-vase-der-zerbrochene-krug-1.1892469 / http://edition.cnn.com/2014/02/18/world/ai-weiwei-vase-destroyed/ etc. Quite a debate there and some interesting, equably debatable, reaction from the artist. On a very different note this thread also reminds me of how children interact with museums and galleries, unaware of the status given to the work on display. Our daughter recognises sculptures as play spaces or functional items and interacts accordingly – until somebody asks her father to intervene.

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