Imagine there are no images on these pages, no high-res renderings to catch your eye as you go by, hoping you’ll stop and dip into the essay. Imagine that’s the way it is. No images. Just these words. Or, perhaps, imagine the artworks on these pages as piles of smoldering ash and cinder. Or imagine them vanished, looted, replaced by other, less eclectic works, works that all pay tribute to some single figure of absolute authority. Or imagine that they were never there at all, the artworks in the United States Capitol, that there isn’t such a place, not anymore. Or that there never was.
Apocryphally, though quoted incessantly, when Benjamin Franklin left the Constitutional Convention in 1787, a Mrs. Powell of Philadelphia asked him, “Well, Doctor, what have we…
