It might seem incredible to have arrived at a point where I have to defend the very existence of painting and sculpture, but that moment alighted when my very significant other and I walked into the Whitney Museum elevator last week, pressed 4 and were told by some random woman in the lift that "floor 4 is closed this afternoon, because there is a performance going on." Getting off at 3, I espied my beloved leafing through the Whit's mini-telephone book of scheduled biennial performances, checking off a couple of "must see" shows, for which a separate admission is charged.
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