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Looking back it seems everyone was frustrated at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum during the mid to late nineties, the years between recession and dot.com bonanza; failed attempts to satisfy love, to satisfy career, art or other, permeated the stagnant rotunda air. Lethargy seeped into the souls of the entire staff - maintenance workers, security guards, art installers, curators. Lethargy even seeped into the soul of the director, a man who longed to spend his days riding a cherished motorcycle, outfitted in black leather, an underling in the bitch position clutched to his tight narrow waist.