After a visit to the Studio Museum in Harlem I wander out through a set of doors leading to an interior courtyard. It’s a sliver of space sandwiched between two buildings, and at the moment it’s completely empty. It’s a hot spring day, and I’ve bicycled up to Harlem. The museum, while it offers a bit of refuge from the unrelenting chaos of 125th Street, is nonetheless crowded; it’s a free day, and a steady stream of visitors pass through the conceptual art installation I’ve come to see. The courtyard spans the entire block between 124th and 125th Streets, and it’s open all the way through (save the glass architectural ‘intervention’ leading in from the museum lobby). I take a seat at one of the few outdoor tables scattered on the mezzanine level. Opposite from where I’m sitting is a text piece by the artist Adam Pendleton, a laundry list of art references I can’t quite follow. No matter, at the moment I’m no longer all that interested in art. It’s a feeling familiar to that of leaving a movie theater after a film has ended, on a lovely spring evening: regardless of whether it was a good film or not ‘reality’ suddenly appears as infinitely more nuanced, more subtle, vastly superior to what has been seen. The two walls that rise up on either side of me are both yellow brick; windowless and mostly featureless, they are draped in the shadow of an indirect, diffused light. There is almost no street noise. This ‘interstitial’ space, whose programming no doubt featured prominently in the architect’s design of the museum, was probably intended for openings, receptions and other social events, perhaps overflow crowds or outdoor performances. But now, on a normal day of museum operations, it’s a castoff, forgotten space. Tufts of grass poke through the gaps in the concrete pavers, debris is piled up along the walls where it’s been blown by the occasional gusts of wind that must sweep through this mostly guarded space. Now and then a curious visitor pokes his/her head through the door, but otherwise I’ve got the space to myself. After fifteen minutes or so of quiet contemplation I head back out to retrieve my bike and fight my way west down 125th Street.