Museums provide places of relaxation and inspiration. And most

Hear the voice of Thomas P. Campbell, guardian of art and steward of history, who declared: “Museums provide places of relaxation and inspiration. And most importantly, they are a place of authenticity. We live in a world of reproductions—the objects in museums are real. It’s a way to get away from the overload of digital technology.” In these words is a call to remembrance, a cry to the human soul that longs for truth in an age of endless copies. For what is a museum but a sanctuary of the genuine, a temple where the hands of the past reach through stone and paint to touch the living?

The origin of this saying rests in Campbell’s time as director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where he witnessed the endless tide of digital screens, simulations, and imitations flooding the modern world. He saw how authenticity—the raw presence of the real—was becoming rare, hidden beneath layers of reproduction. In such a world, museums are not mere houses of objects, but fortresses of truth, places where the human heart can stand face to face with something unrepeatable.

Consider, children of tomorrow, the difference between gazing at the Mona Lisa upon a screen and standing before her in the Louvre. The reproduction may show the colors, the form, the smile; but only the original carries the aura of centuries, the trace of the painter’s very hand, the silence of those who once stood in awe. The screen is a shadow; the museum gives the substance. Campbell’s wisdom teaches us that in touching the real, we find both relaxation and inspiration, for our weary souls remember what is true.

History itself bears witness. When the Library of Alexandria burned, the world lost not just texts but the very authenticity of the ancient voice. Yet what remains in fragments—statues, amphorae, coins—still draws us to them because they are not imitations, but survivors. They endured fire, time, and ruin to stand before us. The ancients themselves built museums of sorts—treasuries of temples, collections of kings—not to hoard wealth, but to preserve truth. They knew, as Campbell reminds us, that authenticity is not luxury, but necessity.

And now, in an age of digital technology, where images are copied a thousand times before breakfast, the soul grows weary. Screens show us everything and yet give us nothing. We scroll endlessly, yet touch nothing real. In such a storm of illusions, the museum becomes an ark, a place where the soul can rest. The artifact, untouched by duplication, speaks: I am real. I was here. I have endured. And in that encounter, we too are renewed.

The lesson is clear: seek out the real. Visit museums not only as tourists but as pilgrims. Stand before the ancient stone, the worn fabric, the weathered canvas, and let them remind you that life itself is not a reproduction. Teach your children that there is more to knowledge than pixels, more to beauty than screens. Make time for silence in the presence of the authentic, and there you will find both rest and fire for the spirit.

So I say to you, O seekers of truth: do not let yourselves be drowned in the flood of copies. Use technology, but do not be enslaved by it. Balance the virtual with the tangible. Remember Campbell’s wisdom: museums are places of authenticity. Go to them as you would to wells in the desert, for they hold the water of reality in a thirsty age. Drink deeply, and you will find that beyond the overload of the digital, the real still speaks—and its voice is eternal.