The artist standing at the end of Jeffers’ thousand years and looking back in nostalgia may walk the whitewashed halls of the Museum of Modern Art and ask why his museum has been transformed from a verdant promenade of marvelous portals to a warehouse for collected trash and preschool geometry. He might ask, quite rightly, why art has been stolen away from the eye and heart by the pesky brain, he might comment on its hijacking by the academic complex, and he might cry in despair for the future of love in a world of driftwood barbed wire sculpture. BY ANDREW ZOLOT

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