Sixty-three by eighty-eight millimetres, held upright in the dark like relics. The museum appraises the sentiment weekly; the cardboard itself has never once been for sale.
A bronze survey of the territory. Gold pins mark ground actually walked; the blue marker awaits its pilgrimage.
Leave your mark. The conservator reviews every page; the committee reads nothing.
Look up. Every fixed point is a friend; the lines between them are the nights that drew them together.
The rafters of an arena that exists only here. Four franchises, inherited rather than chosen, their banners hung at a height where the seasons cannot reach them.
Every museum ends here. Nothing is for sale; everything is priceless; the register has never worked.
A rotating vitrine. Whatever holds the curator's attention this season is placed under glass. Contents subject to change without notice.
Falk is the subject and the curator of this small museum. Works across fields, sports, kitchens, and screens; gathers objects of personal consequence and arranges them with a serious face. The collection rotates as he does.