Reinstalling Thomas Hirschhorn’s Doppelgarage (2002): Bridging Gaps Between Theory, Practice and Emotion in the Preservation of Installation Artworks

Abstract

The focus of this chapter is the reinstallation of Thomas Hirschhorn’s room installation Doppelgarage (2002) in the Pinakothek der Moderne, Munich, Germany, in 2016. Those responsible (curator and conservator) decided on a reconstruction using only conservation documentation—without the artist’s participation. This decision had several immediate consequences: the artist reacted adversely to it, while it also exposed an apparent contradiction in current conservation theory, including the risk of losing “knowing-how” (as distinct from “knowing-that”) about the reconstruction process, and led to unexpected changes in the roles of the actors involved. As the one who served as conservator managing the reconstruction in 2016, I use this opportunity to examine my actions and to embed them in the current theoretical discussion on conserving installation art. If the conservator’s feelings do not tend to be an object of professional contemplation, I explore and describe them here as indicators of potential problems in the reconstruction Hirschhorn’s work. Specifically, I argue that reflection on those issues contributes to bridging important gaps between theoretical frameworks of conservation and the methods selected for this project.

1 Introduction

With its footprint of 120 square metres and more than 400 parts, Doppelgarage (“Double Garage”) by Swiss artist Thomas Hirschhorn (b. 1957) is one of the largest and most complex artworks in the modern art collection of Pinakothek der Moderne, Munich, Germany.¹ The walk-in environment, consisting of two rooms connected by a passage, is completely furnished with PVC flooring, cardboard wall covering and garish fluorescent light, and it is filled with huge objects, books, tools and oversize mushroom landscapes with circulating model trains. Everything is held together by brown and transparent packaging tape. The artist himself has in fact compared his work to an oversized collage (Grün 2011b, p. 223).

The intensive and eye-catching use of adhesive tape is probably the reason why chances were slight from the outset that Doppelgarage would materially survive undamaged. Packaging tape, after all, will commonly turn into a crumbly mass and no longer stick after some years.

After its first installation at Pinakothek der Moderne in 2005, and its dismantling in 2006, Doppelgarage was to be reinstalled after a ten-year hiatus in 2016. This intervening period of ten years, during which this work of art was in a state of slumber, provides us with an opportunity to reflect on its life in the museum and on theoretical discussions in the conservation community. Much would basically remain the same during that ten-year interval: the museum and its facilities, the curator, the conservator (the author of this chapter), as well as most of the art handlers employed by the museum. The artist is still active and approachable. But there is also much that has changed. Although the museum streamlined some of its activities which resulted in more closely defined responsibilities, those pertaining to curators and conservators (as well as artists) appear to have entered in a state of flux. Moreover, there has been a change of paradigms within the research community, involving a shift from the principles of fine art conservation to new conceptual frameworks, as well as from attention to the “freezing” of artworks to a focus on their “unfolding.” The term allographicity—in contrast to autographicity—was introduced, as was the difference between “slow art” and “fast art.”

Because the reconstruction of Doppelgarage was carried out in strict accordance with the conservation documentation, without consulting the artist, I ran into several uncomfortable situations during the process. If feelings or emotions rarely feature explicitly on a professional level,² in this case they are important because they revealed gaps in our reconstruction process. These gaps were varied in nature. One of them, for example, related to my concerns of having implemented particular measures in relation to Doppelgarage contrary to current conservation theory—despite my professional good intentions. In this chapter I will revisit our actions in 2016 while reinstalling Doppelgarage and study them from an autoethnographic perspective, marked by self-reflection and close observation of one’s own practice.³ As such I situate this effort in the current theoretical discussion and aspire to bridge perceived gaps between theory and practice. I will argue that the principles of fine art conservation are still relevant to contemporary installation art. This step “backwards in time,” so to speak, may prove to be necessary in a quite unexpected way and underlines the value of solid documentation.

2 Doppelgarage at Pinakothek der Moderne: A Chronology

2.1 The Artwork

Upon entering Doppelgarage, you find yourself in an unusual environment. The glaring light of the neon tubes, the presence of larger than life-sized objects resting on a roughly-laid grey PVC floor and the rattling of ever-circling model trains immediately capture your attention. Countless pictures cut from news magazines showing scenes from the First Gulf War, demolished Arab houses and the collapsed World Trade Centre are attached to the walls and the objects. Curator Bernhart Schwenk writes, that in Doppelgarage

a kind of workshop or hobby cellar, fundamental categories of human feeling and action are negotiated: violence and counterviolence, revenge and reconciliation. The point of departure for the creation of the work is the events of September 11, 2001. Like scarcely any other work of contemporary art, the Doppelgarage reflects political, economic, and social dependencies and contradictions at the beginning of the 21st century in their confusing complexity. (Pinakotheken 2016)

The packaging tape is everywhere: as a construction element invisible to the viewer, it holds together the cardboard elements that form the sculptures. It is a visual link where segments of the wall cladding are joined, or the PVC sheets overlap. Numerous objects, for example the nest-like sculptures, are completely covered with it. “Flypapers” hanging on each lamp are made of 1.5-metre suspended single and loosely fluttering strips of brown tape to which magazine pictures are stuck.

Before Doppelgarage became part of the museum’s collection, it had been shown twice: in an exhibition at Arndt & Partner Gallery in Berlin in 2002, for which it was created, and again at Schirn Kunsthalle in Frankfurt/Main in 2003. It was acquired for our collection in 2004, and subsequently reinstalled in 2005. Prior to that point, it was the artist and his assistants who had, in each case, constructed and reinstalled it. The initial installation across two rooms in Berlin was the model for the rebuilds in Frankfurt and Munich. The Doppelgarage was tailor-made for the Berlin spaces, which were arranged in a straight line, accessible from the front, and having a combined length of 21 metres. The Frankfurt and Munich rebuilds were supervised by the artist and adapted as necessary. In Munich, these changes were extensive. A length of 21 metres could not be provided, so the rear room was shortened by one metre. To accommodate this change, parts of the wall cladding were variously cut, pushed over each other or removed, while the large, golden cigar-shaped object was shortened by roughly 80 cm. The entrance in the front room was moved to the side, and an emergency exit was added at the back.

2.2 Transfer of Knowledge to the Museum Professionals

During the reconstruction in 2005, the transfer of knowledge from Hirschhorn and his assistants to the conservators and museum technicians began. The technicians provided hands-on assistance, along with tools, electricity and light. The conservators observed and documented the entire process.

Once the reconstruction was complete, the documentation continued.⁴ The components of the work were inventoried, and this list was supplemented by a number of additional resources. These included photographs and textual descriptions of the installation process, the finished work, its dismantling in 2006, tachymetric floor and elevation plans, and photogrammetric plans, which produce views of the walls.

In 2010, I prepared a preservation strategy (Grün 2011b, p. 232), which covered the following points: I initially proposed “preventative measures,” like covering the neon tubes with UV film. I then suggested “conservation of the work’s basic features,” where necessary, focussing on the elements and objects essential for its completeness and readability. I argued, thirdly, for the “acceptance of systematic ageing,” such as the fading of the magazine clippings. Finally, I urged for acceptance of the “limits of conservation intervention,” starting from the assumption that one day a point will be reached when the artwork’s material disintegration will have progressed to the extent that conservation is no longer possible or serves no useful purpose.

Two examples of damage to “basic features” had become apparent by 2010, when some of the crates in the storage were opened to carry out spot checks: one of the giant mushroom-like objects had bent over, and a “nest” had collapsed because the tape that bound it had come apart.⁵ The discovery of such serious damage was appropriate to the apocalyptic picture that had been predicted for the future of the Doppelgarage from the outset. A Bavarian radio program broadcast in 2005 on the occasion of the first presentation in the Pinakothek der Moderne cut straight to the heart of these concerns:

Hirschhorn’s Doppelgarage is thought-provoking art in the best sense of the word. In a few years, problem-solving thinking will also be required of conservators at the Pinakothek der Moderne. How brown adhesive tape behaves after a few years, how this Doppelgarage can be stored without falling apart are issues facing the happy owners of a genuine Hirschhorn. (Grün 2011b, p. 221)

2.3 Decision-Making 2016

In 2016, the “happy owners,” represented by our curator and head of contemporary art, Bernhart Schwenk, decided to put the Doppelgarage on display again. The space was to be the same as in 2005 meaning that, for the first time, no adaptions needed to be made. In line with my abovementioned preservation strategy, the central questions on this occasion were: what is the condition of the Doppelgarage? Have the “limits of conservation intervention” already been reached?

At the time, the Doppelgarage was in a hard-to-reach external warehouse and had not been checked for up to ten years.⁶ The entire artwork was packed in a total of 25 crates, some of which were large. Upon opening them I expected the worst, but much to my surprise—apart from the damage already known—there was nothing new to note and the general condition of the work was good. The tape, in particular, was doing its job just fine.⁷ The explanation for this lies in the material diversity of packaging tape, as there are various supports and adhesives available. The best tape, from the point of view of the packaging industry, has a rubber adhesive layer that allows it to withstand extreme temperature fluctuations while travelling the globe. But this adhesive wears off within a few years. There is also a less high-quality tape with an acrylic adhesive layer that isn't as temperature-resistant but is more durable in a stable museum climate. When Hirschhorn and his assistants opted for the cheaper version, in keeping with his claim to produce non-elitist art, they inadvertently increased the durability of Doppelgarage.

The decision on how to rebuild the work was made by Bernhart Schwenk and myself. If its condition had been poor, we would have installed it as best we could with unforeseen consequences:

We would have called in the artist. After all, there would have been several questions that should have been answered “at discretion”—whose discretion?—for example: Is it at all possible to assemble the work in a bad condition? Which parts should be left out? What is being reproduced?⁸

But this was not the case, so we followed our original construction procedure using our documentation and without consulting the artist. The idea was to keep full control over the result which was to come as close as possible to the 2005 condition, including the restoration of the mushroom and the nest.⁹ We submitted to a self-test: would the documentation be sufficient to achieve this goal?

2.4 Reinstallation 2016

For the reinstallation, the 2005/2006 documentation was available for the entire construction team. The documents were placed on two large worktables, in analogue (printed) form for easier access and mobility.

What struck me as missing, despite all the photos, lists and plans, was the muscle-memory or “finger knowledge” (tacit knowledge) of someone familiar with Hirschhorn’s unique technique of applying the adhesive tape, since it was all about reuniting many individual parts into a collage. But with the experience of Frank Maier, who had been on the art handling team of Galerie Arndt und Partner, as well at the Pinakothek, we managed to obtain this know-how, a valuable supplement to the paper documentation. Maier had acquired extensive knowledge of several constructions and dismantlings of the Doppelgarage, even though he was not one of Hirschhorn’s assistants.

In a first step, the temporary fixtures, i.e., the walls and ceilings, were constructed according to geodetic plans drawn up in 2006. After that, Doppelgarage was put together piece by piece and opened to visitors on the 26th of June 2016. The response to the reconstruction we received from insiders who knew the Doppelgarage from 2005, was unanimous. Everyone thought it had been reconstructed just as they remembered it, as if it had never been dismantled. On the occasion of the reinstallation, Bernhart Schwenk invited Hirschhorn for an evening talk, organised a subsequent panel discussion with the three of us in October 2016, as well as a guided tour by the artist for the sponsors. As Hirschhorn’s train that day was two hours late, Bernhart and I had little time to walk with him through the Doppelgarage. After Hirschhorn’s initial and spontaneous enthusiasm upon seeing the new installation, his tone became increasingly terse. He expressed his annoyance to me pointing to several details, which apparently we “had not understood.” He explained that the cables between the lamps were hanging too far down, that we had obscured important text sheets with a shelf and had partially pasted over other text elements with brown tape. Since I could not refute his criticisms on the spot, I simply listened to him and took notes.

While the artist carried out the tour for the sponsors, I went to the Conservation Lab and searched for the covered areas in the photo documentation of 2005. Much to my relief everything was as it had been built in 2005 by Thomas Hirschhorn and his assistants. I showed Hirschhorn the photos in question just before the evening event began. He looked closely at everything and asked, “How many [photos] do you have?” “Two thick folders,” I answered. He said nothing, and the event began. To Bernhart’s question as to what his feelings had been like when entering Doppelgarage after not having seen it for ten years, Hirschhorn answered:

It was great, as I said, great, that was my first impression, it was how I left it. […] For me as an artist who enters his own work that he did not set up himself, but you have rebuilt it here! I found the spirit just as I left it, I was happy. A moment of happiness. […] I found it again as I wanted it. As I had built it myself three times, I found it the fourth time.¹⁰

In November 2017, after nineteen months of being on display, Doppelgarage was dismantled and put back into storage.

3 Bridging Gaps

3.1 In the Grey Zone of Theoretical Frameworks

When Doppelgarage became part of our collection, the overwhelming challenges that installation art offered as an emerging genre in museum collections needed to be addressed. Extensive documentation and research “to develop guidelines for future conservation and re-installation” (Scholte 2011, p. 13) was considered state of the art to ensure the continued existence of installation artworks. The detailed documentation that we prepared in 2005/2006 can be understood in this spirit. One can say that our perspective implied a focus on the present in its relation to the future. In the subsequent years, however, the paradigm began to shift towards highlighting a focus on the present—a change prompted by developments in time-based media conservation. A new conceptual framework was developed that considers the temporary and ephemeral nature of this genre (Laurenson 2006). Here, the focus is inevitably directed to the here-and-now, because “change materializes periodically rather than continuously, and usually occurs on the occasion of the artwork’s display” (Phillips 2015, p. 171).

Much has been written about the need for a paradigm shift in the field of contemporary art conservation and especially in the areas of time-based media, performance and installation art. Brian Castriota (2019, pp. 39–40) summarizes the process of “reframing conservation practice” under the programmatic heading “From material fixity to fixity of essence”:

In absence of an abiding material substance, novel theoretical frameworks and practical approaches have emerged in the last twenty years wherein the focus of conservation activities has been reoriented towards the identification of a work’s significant, essential or constitutive properties. […] This paradigmatic shift was propelled by the writing of Pip Laurenson […] recognising the many parallels between time-based media installations and musical works […]. Fundamental to this framework is the notion of an artwork’s ‘two-stage’ mode of execution and implementation, where a work’s essential properties—defined and recorded in a score—may serve as the basis for enacting its manifestations in multiplicity.

Castriota identifies the “absence of an abiding material substance” as the reason for the new frameworks—a circumstance that does not necessarily affect installation art.

It is possible that this observation from Pip Laurenson has led to installation art being mentioned in the same breath as time-based media installations and performances because of its “two-stage mode”:

As we shall see, the fact that these works [time-based media installations] are installations has perhaps a greater impact on the development of a conceptual framework for their conservation than the fact that they involve time-based media. (Laurenson 2006, p. 1)

Van de Vall (2017, [84], p. 92) discerns three distinct paradigms: the scientific, the performance and the processual. As she explains, there is

a generally accepted but nowadays relatively less relevant paradigm of scientific conservation [for which the preservation of the material integrity of the work as a physical is the central aim of conservation], an increasingly acknowledged performance paradigm [in which the core of the work is considered to consist in its concept, which should be realized through the faithful performance of a set of instructions stipulating the features defining the work’s identity] and a still very experimental processual paradigm [in which not the correspondence of an eventual result with a pre-existing concept, but the process is assumed to be the core of the work and the main aim of conservation is support of the work’s continuation through transmission of the required information, skills and procedures to the designated participants or stakeholders].

Although van de Vall describes traditional, or “scientific conservation,” as still “accepted but less relevant,” it is often fraught with negative connotations in the context of preserving installations. The “traditional view of conservation” is associated with a wish to “to freeze artworks in a single state” (Macedo et al. 2012, p. 5). Yet “[i]nstallations are—by nature—designed to change” (Goldie-Scott and Lei 2019). The impact of this misalignment is significant, as Hölling has explained: “[T]he traditional paradigm of conservation which presumes to fix objects in time by arresting change (intrinsic or extrinsic to them) resonates in the prevalent concept of a museum tied to a concept of safeguarding physical, static artifacts” (Hölling 2016, pp. 4–5). Her summary is unflattering: “Such concept of a museum is often compared to a tomb, crypt or mausoleum” (Hölling 2016, p. 20).

On the strength of these descriptions one can get the impression that traditional “scientific conservation” is not appropriate to preserving installations. From this perspective, the procedure of restoring Doppelgarage in a minimally invasive manner and rebuilding it as faithfully as possible based on exact documentation seems downright absurd.¹¹ I need not mention that we did just that, however—with the best of intentions. Have we thereby made ourselves the keepers of a mausoleum, with Doppelgarage as its corpse?

To resolve this dilemma, I would like to assess Doppelgarage and our actions in relation to its reinstallation and how this artwork can be classified within the current theoretical discussion. In this, I follow the basic consideration that if there are different conservation paradigms, the converse should be true as well, i.e., there should be criteria by which every work to be conserved can be assigned to an appropriate paradigm. After all, it is the work of art with its special and unique characteristics that should serve as starting point for linking it to a particular paradigm. Below I will present several writings that deal with the classification of works of art.

Hölling (2016, p. 10) discerns “slow” and “fast” art, considering the relativity of temporal duration:

Unlike traditional artworks such as paintings or sculpture, which are subject to entropy and decay and which might be defined as “slow art” due to the pace of their decline, performance, installation, and digital artworks might be classified as a sort of “fast art” because they are typically created to be experienced for only very short durations of time before they “end”. […] Slow art stands at the center of a traditional concept of the museum as a harbour of physical artifacts.

According to this definition, the Doppelgarage would be both—slow and fast art—because it consists of sculptures (“physical artifacts”) but is also defined by the finiteness of its respective presentations.

The notions of autographicity and allographicity can also be of help in this matter. In analysing authenticity and authorship, Laurenson (2006), following Nelson Goodman, introduced a distinction between autographic and allographic artworks:

Autographic arts, like painting and sculpture may depict the hand of the artist and paradigmatically leave the studio as a complete work. Allographic arts, like music and performance, are installed or performed each time they are displayed in a second moment of creation. (Laurenson 2016, p. 34:19)

Once again, according to these definitions, Doppelgarage would correspond to both categories. On the one hand it was produced exclusively in the artist’s studio, with the help of assistants, but under Hirschhorn’s strict instructions. On the other hand, it can only be experienced when it is on display, which means it must be (re)installed. This again would imply that Doppelgarage is of “dual nature.” In regard to slide-based artworks, Francesco Leonelli (2019, pp. 151–153) points in his chapter “Are slide-based artworks simultaneously allographic as well as autographic art forms?” to the “dual nature” of this genre: “how, actually, should one approach the problem that slides are simultaneously finished artworks as well as modifiable forms when being reproduced?”

But perhaps Laurenson’s phrase “in a second moment of creation” is the solution—in my opinion, the exact reconstruction according to precise plans has nothing in common with a “second moment of creation,” but is rather to be understood as bridging the exhibition break of a “first moment of creation.” According to this understanding, Doppelgarage (so far!) would be an autographic work of art. The circumstances that (1) the state of preservation is (still) good, (2) no spatial alterations are necessary, and (3) comprehensive documentation is available, play an essential role in this sorting.

And which conservation paradigm is now valid? Laurenson (2006, p. 4) suggests “that the concept of authenticity operating in the traditional conceptual framework of conservation is appropriate for a framework in which the objects of conservation are the autographic arts […].”¹² This assessment goes hand in hand with an understanding of the preservation strategy mentioned above, which is deeply committed to traditional principles. The surprisingly good general condition and the possibility of restoring existing damage according to the principles of “scientific conservation,” using minimally invasive and restorative methods, made it possible to show Doppelgarage exactly as it had been ten years earlier. One could argue that the “frozen” installation with its 9/11 theme was a memorable experience precisely because its “own world,” as it were, had stood still for over ten years while the outside world had continued to turn. But would that, in fact, be correct? Even though I reported on the good general condition of Doppelgarage, traces of its “systematic aging” were unmistakable: the magazine photos were slightly faded, transparent adhesive tape had yellowed, the cardboard boxes of some of the sculptures had given way slightly under their own weight and had lost some of their tension. Analogous to the viewers, who may have gained some grey hair and a few extras wrinkles in the intervening decade, Doppelgarage had also gotten on in years—but this was exactly what made the reunion so appealing. In this respect, the word “frozen” is incorrect, as it may have applied to the “completeness and readability” of the work, but not to the micro-processes that had occurred imperceptibly, but which nevertheless had had a decisive effect.¹³

But what would have happened if, in 2016, during the condition check, we had found that the “limits of conservation intervention” had been reached? At this point, I can only make guesses—a conceivable scenario would be that the tape had worn off, the “collage” had then fallen apart and larger over mouldings would have been necessary, which could not have been reconciled with “minimal intervention”:

As soon as one or more of an artwork’s components are replaceable and any degree of interpretation is required to re-configure the piece for installation, the notion of allographicity provides a useful conceptual framework for conservation and documentation. (Phillips 2015, p. 174)¹⁴

The abovementioned changes would have resulted in the transition of Doppelgarage to an allographic work of art.

3.2 Finger Memory and Documentation—“Knowing How” and “Knowing That”

If you put the work in storage and don’t display it for ten years, you’ve diminished your ability to keep it because you might not be able to install it properly. (Jill Sterrett in: Getty Conservation Institute 2009)

This quotation expresses my concerns shortly before the installation of Doppelgarage very well because a correct installation is an important part of the conservation of complex artworks (Stigter 2017, p. 6). The decision was taken to carry out the reconstruction in strict compliance with the documentation—without the artist. In 2016, we already had considerable experience in the successful reconstruction of multi-part and installational works.¹⁵ And yet I had reservations in this case. What made me doubt that we could do it without the artist? What was the difference between this and other artworks, where I felt no doubts at all? With the engagement of Frank Maier these doubts were dispelled. With his “tacit knowledge” of the technique of joining the individual parts of Doppelgarage, he filled the gap that was still missing in order to install the work “properly,” because even the seemingly careless application of the adhesive tape in its various functions demands skill. This was the missing link, which was not covered by the documentation. Frank Maier, himself a visual artist, replied as follows to my question about what he could do better than others who were involved in the construction of the Doppelgarage:

The feeling for the handling of “special materials” in the art context, i.e., the adhesive tape and how to use it, is difficult to communicate through photographic material if you have no experience. The reconstruction true to the original, through quasi spontaneous sticking together of the individual elements, the “simple” stapling [of the wall claddings] and yet remaining precise, […] the implementation […] in a Hirschhorn habitus […, in that] I was able to do much more than those who had never before had anything to do with Hirschhorn’s works.¹⁶

Following Gilbert Ryle, van Saaze (2013, p. 140) has described two different concepts of knowing: “knowing how” and “knowing that.” As she explains:

“Knowing how” refers to the kind of knowledge involved in action and movement whereas “knowing that” is a knowledge of facts and information. […] Ryle argues that “know how” is shown in the things that people do: in the physical movement and overt behaviour. “Knowing how,” in other words, is concerned with practical reason and doing, and is related to tacit, practical knowledge, and skill as distinct from theoretical knowledge and reasoning.

Transferred to the assembly of Doppelgarage, Frank Maier’s knowledge embodies “knowing how,” the documentation exemplifies “knowing that.” Both fields of knowledge were essential.¹⁷ It is, therefore, helpful when purchasing or first setting up the artwork to be clear about what types of knowledge will be required for a reinstallation in the future and how this can be ensured in the long term.

3.3 The Conservator’s Changing Role

The scene in which Thomas Hirschhorn poured out his criticism upon me in the middle of the well-attended Doppelgarage is one of the most unpleasant things I have experienced in my professional life to date. It hit me completely unexpectedly. How could it come to this? The following is relevant here:

In contrast to a great number of traditional artworks, which rely on their physical presence in their original materials […] iterant artworks exist only on the basis of an instruction or a score that must be installed, projected, performed. This questions the traditional functionality of a museum as an institution harbouring artworks as objects. (Hölling 2016, p. 11)

This quotation contains two aspects which I consider essential to answer my question: “Iterant artworks exist only on the basis of an instruction or a score” and “Traditional functionality of a museum as an institution.” Generally, the creation of instructions or scores is associated with the artist and are his part of the job. Hirschhorn summed it up above: “As I had built it myself three times, I found it the fourth time.” The first three set-ups had been carried out by Hirschhorn and his assistants. The latter had their own “score” in the form of drawings and photos on a laptop and Hirschhorn, of course, had his memories of those efforts. For the fourth set-up, the conservation documentation served as a “score,” thus replacing the presence of the artist. The conservator’s role here was that of score-writer.

Bernhart Schwenk answered my question and justified the decision to do the reconstruction in the absence of the artist: “I had confidence in your conservatorial feel, based on the entire documentation you have created. Through the documentation, the work has entered our mental inventory.”¹⁸ Bernhart’s observation points to who in this case was the central stakeholder in this installation and had the greatest impact on the work’s appearance: the conservator. Usually the curator and/or the artist make decisions in matters of presentation. In this instance, the role shifting, whereby these responsibilities ended up in my hands as conservator, evolved out of the entire process and happened more or less by accident, unplanned. The same redistribution of roles occurred in the context of the reinstallation of several other artworks under strict observance of conservation documentation. Interestingly, it was Hirschhorn’s harsh criticism that made me think of it. And because of this, it was me who was the focus of his criticism, since I had entered his territory through my “score-writing” and—so he thought—had made my own interpretation of his work.¹⁹

How a museum conservator defines his/her role depends on many factors, such as individual training, the structure of the museum, the specialisation of colleagues in other departments and the staffing level in general. These overriding factors are subject to change over time. Regarding specific and time-limited projects, personal experience can lead to a temporary redistribution of roles. To ensure that this does not happen unconsciously, it makes sense to break the project down into tasks and to create an agenda for the individual participants—possibly outside the usual distribution of roles. The more aware we are of our role, the more easily we will communicate and collaborate with artists.

4 Conclusion

As a conservator trained in the traditional conservation model, I see the development of new conceptual frameworks as a great opportunity necessary to professionally preserve works of art that the old framework cannot accommodate. I can well remember my perplexity at the start of my career when faced with conservation problems that seemed to require magic to solve. In this respect, the development of new models that recognise change and transformation as a fundamental possibility is a tremendous relief and an indispensable aid for practising conservators in their daily decisions. Nevertheless, I have the impression that in this new approach, which began in the disciplines of time-based media and performance where the need was most obvious, other contemporary genres (e.g., installation art) were hastily taken on board. It is easier to find theoretical literature on installation art works that do not fit into the traditional conservation paradigm than on those that do. The group comprising the latter, however, is currently the majority in our collection. In my opinion, research into the grey zone in which a work of art fluctuates between its classification and paradigms is still pending. In the case of Doppelgarage I put forward the following aspects as further criteria for classification: the (good) state of preservation, the (lack of) need to make (spatial) changes and the availability of sufficient documentation. I am sure that regarding other works of art an even wider list of criteria could be elaborated.

As I hope to have shown, the theoretical discussion of conservation issues is important and helpful for the practitioner to sort out decisions made or situations that have arisen in practice and to learn from perceived “gaps.” At the same time, it is necessary to test the theoretical concepts in practice. In mutual conversation, gaps between theory and practice can be bridged.

I would like to suggest that the achievement of new frameworks should not be seen as a paradigm shift, but rather as a paradigm diversification, where all models—traditional and new—are on an equal footing, in the knowledge that perhaps each will be applied at a particular time. Herewith I see the best possibility to preserve works of art in their change and in the course of time.²⁰

Here are my findings in brief:

• Talk about your tasks. They can deviate from the usual role allocation in your professional structure.

• Discern between “knowing that” and “knowing how.” Make sure that neither is missing.

• Classify the artwork you are working on. This will be the starting point for paradigm assignment.

• All paradigms matter. The principles of “scientific conservation” can and should be applied to installation art—if and as long as this is possible.

• And finally: listen to your feelings and welcome them as potential whistle-blowers on a professional basis. They can help to point out structural inconsistencies and thus lead to more clarity.

I am curious about the next reinstallation of Doppelgarage.