1. Genesis

On how The Peripatetic Museum came about

It all started five months ago, rather serendipitously. Through the grapevine, it came to my knowledge there was a one-off 50% reduction on the Interrail Pass to celebrate its 50th anniversary. 

So actually, it all really started in 1972, with another 50th anniversary: the rail pass began as a one-off celebratory offer of the International Union of Railways (UIC). During that one year, over 87,000 young folks criss-crossed Europe with their unlimited train ticket, traveling abroad (many for the first time), meeting fellow Europeans, visiting all the sites which have contributed in one way or another to our common history. The initial success of the scheme led the IUC to renew it and to develop the offer further. From the initial 21 participating countries, there are now 33; from the initial offer limited to youth under 21, there are now offers for all kinds of people; from the initial one-month pass, there are now many different options and combinations. 

But the spirit of Interrail remains the same: an emblem of European unity if ever there was one, a gateway to adventure (albeit limited and safe), an emancipatory rite of passage. Admittedly, rail travel is nowadays not quite as daring as setting off into the ocean on canoes like our ancestors did thousands of years ago, it doesn’t require the same amount of brazen courage as embarking on a boat expedition with the expectation of toppling off the face of the Earth, it doesn’t demand the same physical and mental stamina as trekking across unknown continents, or the sheer temerity of stepping foot into a spacecraft which might explode on takeoff. 

At the end of the day, rail travel mainly involves getting on and off trains. The only discomforts one can expect are long waits, uncomfortable seating, and inconvenient connections. I can’t imagine running out of water or food, there is nothing I can lose which I won’t be able to easily replace, and as for communicating… surely I will be able to somehow get by? Nonetheless, as far as adventure goes, it is as good a place as any to start. There are still many barriers to cross, whether geopolitical, cultural, linguistic. For all the talk of European unity, there is still enough diversity for travel to expose one to many expected and unexpected differences. 

Anyway, back to the grapevine. As far as methods of communications go, it is neither the fastest nor the most reliable one. I only heard about the Interrail offer a few days before it ended, which in reality was a blessing in disguise: I bought a two-month pass before having time to talk myself out of it. 

But then what? I like to think - rather pretentiously perhaps - that I always travel with purpose. In a way, it is true. My physical and mental peregrinations, although often rambling and haphazard, always have some kind of goal however ill-defined or obscure. That goal might be as mundane as visiting a friend, but generally it is learning about a place, its history, following in the footsteps of an event, a historical figure, something. 

At the time I bought the ticket, in March 2022,  I was working on my Master’s thesis, on the place of women artists in the permanent exhibitions of public fine arts museums in France. It is a fascinating - if often disheartening - topic. The lack of academic research and thorough feminist critical analysis in France are all the more discouraging given that since the 1970S, feminist art history abroad has brought to the fore the many issues that exhibiting women artists entails: unearthing forgotten or ignored artists, historically contextualising their marginalisation, challenging the hierarchies of the art historical canon. My reading gave a new direction to my interest in art history: what is the canon? Which artists are celebrated and remembered? Which ones not? Why? Who are the artists who invariably seem left out, forgotten, ignored? How does the concept of “artistic genius” condition our understanding of art history? With the few months and 25,000 words allotted to me to conduct and present my research, I felt I could only scratch the surface. 

I was walking home along the tram line from the Porte de Versailles, in Paris, when the idea of what would become The Peripatetic Museum fell upon me. I say “fell upon me” because it really did. Once formed, the idea seemed so obvious that its non-existence a few minutes prior appeared absolutely absurd. The idea brought together what I loved most in life: travel (I had the Interrail Pass), museums and art (I was reading, thinking, breathing the topic at the time), and writing (for which everyday life never leaves me enough time). The Peripatetic Museum would give me the space to pursue my ponderings on art and museums, and the time to express them in writing. It would give me the opportunity to confront my ideas with other people, and explore outside and beyond the art historical canon I had grown up with. 

The Peripatetic Museum is, at its heart, an experiment - or rather: an experimental protocol. Art critic Jerry Saltz described museums as “wormholes to other worlds”: I set out to explore them. For if that is the case, what unexpected shortcuts, what secret pathways, what surprising trails do they offer? How do they link places and people otherwise widely separated physically, temporally, culturally? If one were to wander into a museum in - let’s say - France, where could the wormhole possibly lead us? These wormholes follow the meanderings of artists, the ebbs and flows of artistic movements, the political and cultural upheavals of countries. Mingling personal stories of travel or migration, and larger historical and cultural narratives, they create a labyrinth of artistic influences - a labyrinth with infinite pathways and exits.

From these questions and hypotheses, I established the parameters of the experiment. Starting in my hometown - or at least my home region, I will meet over the next two weeks museum curators at the Musée de Lodève and the Musée Fabre (Montpellier). These encounters and the discussions around the museum’s collections will lead me to the next place, where, in turn, I hope to meet and talk to museum professionals, artists, and curious locals, so as to find the following destination. And so on and so forth across Europe. 

It is a rambling and uncertain project: where will it lead me? Who will I meet? What will I discover? Are my questions even relevant? Will I get stuck in a neighbouring country? Your guess is as good as mine.*

The words of the Spanish poet Antonio Machado can guide the hesitant traveler: 

Caminante, son tus huellas

el camino y nada más;

Caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar.

Wanderer, your footprints are 

the path, and nothing else; 

wanderer, there is no path, 

the path is made by walking.**

But amidst all this (planned and organised) uncertainty, there is one thing that you, dear studious and curious reader, can count on: every Sunday at 3pm, I will be here, in your inbox, for your entertainment and instruction.*** Whereas for a few days still, The Peripatetic Museum remains hypothetical, these words on my computer and on your screen are tangible proof of more to come. I look forward to bringing you with me. 

Cora Hopkins

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*Not quite, though. I do have a few ideas, but I’ll keep them to myself. I don’t want my preconceptions to impede the experimental protocol. 

**Luckily though, there are railways. 

***The pressure to be of interest to you is the fuel of the project.

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The Peripatetic Museum humbly follows in the footsteps of countless Interrailers. What are your best train travel memories ? Comment below!

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