Our newest friend, Kiefer, is a most amusing soul
Sour dour and yet so young
He reminds us of ourselves
As we were centuries ago
But he is so very cynical, believing in so little
Our many parts find levels of amusement and sadness

For excitement we have heard
Kiefer is a good listener
That our new place is ready
That we will be moving soon, very soon
We tingle with the fervor of change
Soon we will be separate again
Our smaller sides exposed to the world
(fear not shy friends, it will not be for long)
And then together again, in our fresh place of honor

There remains, as always
Many stories
To tell

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow The Mosaic and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

When things settle down a bit, we’ll tell you what it was like to see our home in the new building for the first time. That’s where we met our maker, Ledelle Moe, once again. That will have to wait for another day.

Instead, we want to share some amazing news: You know we’ve actually been on loan for a long time–visitors and volunteers alike love us–but it’s meant that we haven’t always felt like we were part of the family around here. That’s all changed. The Museum docents (we love you!) have generously decided to purchase us so that we may be part of the permanent collection. We’re thrilled. We’ve come a long way on our journey to North Carolina, and soon we will be able to call it home, forever!

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow Congregation and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

We always have a story to tell
All around us changes occur
We hear much

Our friends tell us the new viewing place is filling
Many of our friends have gained their new places of honor
More than that we are told
Many are joining who are friends of old

We miss all the company, miss the people
But we do not have long to wait
For we can even hear to the highest level of our building
Can hear the plans people make

Our marble parts shiver with anticipation
So many coming to see us
So many faces to see, so many eyes
And onward it comes

Some of our younger friends say it is too long
Too far away in time
But we remind ourselves, yes we do
They are so young, never seeing a century

We remember, we are patient
A few months is not much time
For all around us changes occur
We still have a story to tell

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow The Mosaic and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

As fun and exciting as it may all sound, a lot of planning and work happens behind the scenes to prepare for sending a work of art on the road. Back in October 2008, I was removed from my comfortable spot in the gallery and moved to the Museum’s conservation lab. While in the lab, the conservators did a very thorough job of examining me from top to bottom. I couldn’t be modest during this process—the conservators wanted to make sure that I was in good enough shape to withstand vigorous travel. I also had a fitting for my crate—it was built specifically to transport me from one venue to another. Crates are built to be super sturdy and protect works of art as they travel. The carpenters try to make it as comfortable as possible with extra foam padding, but it is not fun to be boxed up in the dark for a long time.

After much anticipation on my part, I was finally secured in my crate, the lid was screwed on, and I was on my way to my first stop—Washington, D.C. The ride was a little bumpy and I was relieved when I arrived at the National Gallery of Art. When the art handlers were ready to install me, they unscrewed my lid and took me out of my crate.  Before I could be hung on the wall, the conservators looked me over again to make sure I didn’t get any bumps or bruises on the road trip.  After a thumbs-up, I was hung on the wall with the other paintings. After a few deep breaths, I slowly relaxed and was able to take in the scenery. WOW—I recognized so many old friends from my artist’s studio even though it had been hundreds of years since I had seen them.  What fun it was to be reunited with them for this exciting journey!

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow The Feast of Esther and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

But I am also of the spirit—an exalted object, revered by many. Not for what I am so much as for the words I carry:  Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy—I know the words by heart. My words preserve the history of a people, remind them of sacred law. And so… I think of myself as a teacher.

Moroccan immigrants carried me to Jerusalem, and many heard my words in services at the Wailing Wall. Always, I felt so proud as the rabbi used a yad to point to my words as he read them aloud.

But time had its way with me, and like all earthly things, I became worn with use. So deep in my work, I barely noticed it happening. My words remain, as beautiful and strong as ever, and I do not mind my worn places, for they are my memories; they remind me of how important I was, and how well loved. But I was sad to no longer feel the yad tracing the lines of the stories I hold.

But do not be sad for me. For now I have come to a new place, and I will have a new life.

I do not know what became of the Torah case I once dwelled in. But the people here have placed me in a handsome case that had lost its scroll. It is a good union, a lovely friendship, for we are of the same age, familiar to each other, and we remind each other of our past, of what we’ve lost. And in my heart, I am young again.

Now I hear the people talking about a new home, a place I grow eager to see. It will not be a place of worship. But a special place just the same. A place of great beauty. A place of questions and ideas. A place where the past is revered and treasured along with the new.

And many people—people of all faiths, from many different lands—will come to see me, and learn.

Soon, they say, I will be there. Soon the people will come. And I will be a teacher again, in a new way. And I will be proud to do this good work. For now, a time to sleep—to remember the past, to dream of the future.

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow Torah Scroll and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

Image caption:
North African, probably Moroccan, Torah Scroll, mid-19th century, ink on calf skin vellum, sewn with animal sinew, H. 20 1/4 in. (variable), Gift of the Friends of the Judaic Art Gallery in honor of Dr. and Mrs. Elmo Scoggin; Iraqi, Torah Case (Tik), 1908 (dedication date), silver: die-stamped, repoussé, cast, appliqué, chased, engraved, partly gilded; wood; textile; carnelian beads (restoration), H. 36 7/8 x Diam. 10 1/2 in., Museum Purchase, Judaic Art Fund and Museum Purchase Fund; Iraqi, Torah Finials (Rimmonim), late 19th-early 20th century, brass: repoussé, chased, cast, gilded, H. 6 1/2 in., Gift of the Harold Kadis and Robert Kadis families in memory of their parents, Isaac and Mary Kadis

Ledelle Moe, Congregation, 2005–07, concrete, dimensions variable, Courtesy of the artist, © 2009 Ledelle Moe

We can’t remember a time when we’ve been apart. You see, like most groups, we are stronger in numbers. We have more impact that way. It’s strange that even though each of is utterly unique, we all have really similar qualities. We are all made of concrete, we are roughly the same size, we all have a steel pin going through our head, and we are all the same age. It’s funny, because even though we look like we’re old, we’re really quite young. Our faces are all different, yet when you look at us, they sometimes seem the same.

Each of us is important individually, yet equally important as part of a group. And speaking of being in a group, sometimes it is tiring holding your head up, only knowing the same face next to you day after day, night after night. But soon, that will change. Soon, we will all come down from the wall and take a journey to a new place. And with that journey, we will each have a new face next to us. For now though, we patiently wait, looking forward to the day we can rest our heads for a bit.

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow Congregation and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

Rodin, The Kiss, modeled circa 1881–82, cast at a later date, bronze, 34 x 17 x 22 in., Gift of the Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Foundation

As an “it” couple, we’re used to the red carpet treatment. The throngs of people, photo shoots, jet-setting, spa treatments and touch ups, exclusive parties, and front page headlines—it’s all in a day’s work really.

Since 1995, we’ve “honeymooned” across the globe visiting 36 cities in the United States, Canada, Singapore, and Australia. (See a map of our travels.) We’ve seen the bright city lights of Los Angeles, Vancouver, Singapore, and Perth. We’ve been to the Great White North and to college campuses across the U.S. There were fabulous ski trips to Utah and Calgary and a relaxing sea-side get-away in Sarasota.

It’s not all glitz and glamour, though. Being in the spotlight for some 14 years is a bit exhausting. Just when we’ve settled in at one venue, we’re off again. It’s practically a circus traveling with an entourage of 59 across the globe. We’ve hardly been able to steal a moment to ourselves, and it has definitely taken a toll on our relationship. And the jet lag . . . don’t even get us started.

Now we’ve found ourselves in a curious place. It’s incredibly drab. Just wide open spaces, barren concrete walls, and scattered crates. We spot a familiar friend or two across the way—the curious fellow always so deep in thought, that unfortunate headless torso, and the ever-preaching Saint John.

But where is the red carpet, the adoring fans, and the good lighting that hides our trouble spots? We sure hope we won’t be here long. Check back and we’ll fill you in on our dreadful current situation and the next leg of our journey.

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow The Kiss and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

Anselm Kiefer, Untitled, 1980–86, oil, acrylic, emulsion, shellac, lead, charcoal, and straw on photograph, mounted on canvas with stones, lead, and steel cable, various dimensions, Purchased with funds from the State of North Carolina, W. R. Valentiner, and various donors, by exchange, © 2009 Anselm Kiefer

Silence. Stillness. Solitude. Finally. It won’t last–who knows what they have in store for me?–but it’s a relief for now.

I’m alone in my gallery, my very own gallery. That is, if you don’t count the Shapiro. And I don’t. Stella was carried out to God-knows-where weeks ago. That one was just too horribly cheerful. And the Katz, don’t get me started…the constant small-talk, the party chatter. The Albers, the gentle Albers, I do miss. Does that surprise you? I hope to see him again. It is heartening for a moment to think how something so precise, perhaps so cold and aloof at first glance, can be so moving and warm.

All that remains are empty walls–save for Stella’s hefty shelf–and industrial rolling ladders to nowhere. May I have one? My leaden ladder was stolen away soon after the crowds left, as were my heavy hanging stones and funnel. They are just objects, just facts, solid things that corrode, bend, gather dust; they buckle, crack and fade in the weather; they develop patina. Merely material. And yet we fill them with import, with symbolism and metaphor and stories. Lead, for instance, leads us down a rabbit-hole of associations: heavy, slow, poison, alchemy, bullets, batteries, planets, radiation, sculpture. Layers of meaning and history and imagination are encrusted on things that matter. But I shouldn’t go on like a bore.

These are thoughts that fill my head when you are gone. Anselm used to put some of us outside for a spell, to feel the rain and sun and be changed, forgotten or transformed. Perhaps that’s what’s next. Time will tell.

Frank Philip Stella, Raqqa II, American, 1970, synthetic polymer and graphite on canvas,120 x 300 in., Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Hanes, © 2009 Frank Stella/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

It’s difficult being popular. I know, I know. Those who aren’t quite as popular as me may not see this. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy being the big man on campus. I love having my picture everywhere—posters, brochures, post cards, the internet. I adore the groups of children who hover in front of me, whispering, chatting, even shouting out of turn in their school groups. I relish the audible gasp of first-time visitors as they round the corner and are taken aback by my size, my shape, my striking colors—the simple dominance of my presence. What I like most about being so remarkable is that people remember me. When they think of this place, when they recall what they have seen here, whether it was last year or 20 years ago, I come to mind. On return visits, they come to see me and there I am, just as they remember.

But all this fame and glory comes at a price. I am always on the job. From the day the doors opened here on Blue Ridge Road, I have never been anywhere other than hanging right on my wall. Can you believe that? There is simply no where for me to go for a respite—no storage space big enough, no corridor of size for me to squeeze down. I was once enclosed in a wall to cover me up for a special exhibition on flight (that was not fun) but other than that, I’ve never been off-view.

So I faithfully hang in my gallery, removed only for the occasional cleaning and inspection (which is a grand occasion in itself, but we’ll chat about that later on). So I have to admit I have been looking forward to my journey to the new gallery building for quite some time. I’ll fill you in on that as well as where I was before I came to the NCMA almost 30 years ago. While it is difficult being the largest painting in our collection, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow Raqqa II and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

We can still remember, but just barely, the days when we were not united, when we were nothing but stones and sand, scattered about the lands. We were gathered up by many hands, treasured and cleaned, and finally brought together, a great mosaic, forming us into our collective. Here we talk and think together. Here we can watch the world around us move.

There were centuries when we sat on the ground, walked upon by thousands of men, women, and children. How we loved the children! They did not just walk on us, they skipped, they played, enjoying what we gave them. In those days we had the sun, we had the dry North African land.

Mosaic, 2nd Century, Roman, Marble and glass, 8ft 2in x 8ft 2in, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Hanes, 1979 (79.6.9)

Then we were moved, to a dark place where we didn’t see the sun. We were alone. We were untouched and we grew apart. Then, finally, the children came back. Soon we could hear their questions, see their faces, feel their smiles. We lay in a place of honor, among the myriad other stone creations.

And now we come to another move. Now we shall be split apart, but only for a moment, and then a new world. There we shall see light again. Truly beautiful light! We will once more be able to view the stars at night, and once more see our old friends. Our new home, with its sturdy white walls and smooth wood floors. And children.

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow The Mosaic and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.