“You have to love dancing to stick to it,” Cunningham once said. “It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive.” Cunningham’s own archive argues the contrary, and the institution that tends to his legacy offers more than a semblance of permanence; the Capsules do give something back, as outlines for potential reconstructions. But Cunningham may have meant that these things are just placeholders, mementos. Cage once described Cunningham’s work as “less like an object and more like the weather.” One is no less present than the other; both are tangible. But an object is good at sticking around. The weather, on the other hand, passes on.