A few years back, I went with my dad to New York city. On the second day, we went to the MOMA. "This used to be my chapel," he said. "I would come here as often as I could."

Recently, someone asked me why I was so concerned with cultural artifacts, in reference to my recent post about sex. Well, if I had, say, two months with no work, no scheduled time, one of the first things I'd do would be to go to a place where there were tons of such artifacts—things people made. I would want to know: What surprises shall come amongst all the things my contemporaries have made? Not that the secrets of the universe would be unlocked that way, not necessarily of course. It's not as if what falls under the rubrick of "art" is "important" perforce. Quite the contrary: galleries and museums of late have a rather strong bias for the flippant, the non-committal, the self-absorbed, and the shifty—all significant features of our historicity, and all good reasons why the culturally-aware should look for art outside official art spaces).

But how could one understand sex without some figure, some spectacle, some aspect? Would I rely on my own limited perceptions?

I'm drawn to these places—the official cathedrals of art—because I shudder to miss what statements (no: visualizations) my fellow inquirers might devise. They are my pastors, my co-religionists, these people who would envision something not yet seen, who would confront me with textures I don't want to touch, who would explore an axis of variation not yet realized. Wherever they are, is my chapel.