Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me! —D.H. Lawrence As a force beyond our control, the weather offers some relief; it’s not our fault. And that’s probably why we talk about it to avoid talking about other things. But is it only that? In fact, weather fails as a metaphor. It is a ferocious mood swing that can destroy your home or make you fall in love or both, and that makes it far too real to describe only something else. Because over the past few years something else happened. We don’t know exactly what yet. But we do know that a series of storms came through. Political events and economic collapses arrive just as the weather does, without explanation. Cause and effect decouple. Hierarchies dissolve and people enter the streets in the millions. We become like the wind but also not ourselves. And the foundation on which art objects have been produced and exhibited shatters, because it was always pegged to a modern project that, like financial speculation, took for granted that the future would always be better. Faced with an empty lot, it sees an apartment complex. Faced with rocks it sees sculpture. And when …