It was a bizarre moment. I was visiting New York’s Museum of Modern Art for the first time, revelling in Duchamp and Brancusi, Cezanne and Schwitters. Then I came across a room that felt like a pious shrine, a white reliquary containing models of unbuilt architecture, posters for a failed utopia. This was MoMA’s homage to the art of the Russian revolution. Why did it seem so strange? Because here we were on West 53rd street, in the heart of capitalist Manhattan.
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