In Romania, politics and art go hand in hand. So much so that there has been a running joke among artists that you can't have a gallery opening without an appearance from Adrian Nastase - the country's former prime minister, unexpectedly removed from office in the elections a fortnight ago. His apparent devotion to the contemporary arts scene was sharply satirised last year, when Vlad Nanca opened his own flat as a temporary gallery: Nanca leafed through the phonebook, found a few Adrian Nastases, and invited one at random. (He went, too.) But for some of the country's leading young artists, this relationship with Nastase's government became significantly more uncomfortable when the new Romanian Museum of Contemporary Art was opened in the same building as the parliament.  Their problem isn't just with the gallery's neighbours, but with the building itself. The new museum has been installed in the House of the People, previously the Palace of the People, the unfinished monolith that Ceausescu began constructing in the 1970s as a symbol of everything of which he was capable as dictator.  The building is monstrous, a megalomaniacal blend of baroque, neo-Gothic and modernism, sprawling over the middle of Bucharest. Its cruel facade is lined with row upon row of windows: Romanians call them "the big eye of Ceausescu". The critic Ami Barik, meanwhile, describes the Palace as "architectural pornography ... meant to exhibit the organs of power in colossal erection". Twenty per cent of the city, including some of its oldest churches, was torn down to make way for it. Workers died in near-forced labour conditions; others are said to have been killed to protect its secrets. No wonder Bucharest's inhabitants view the House/Palace with a respect tinged with bitterness.  When Ceausescu was deposed, 15 years ago this month, in one of eastern Europe's strangest and bloodiest revolutions, there was talk of turning the Palace into a giant casino. The decision to turn it into an art gallery instead has kicked off a spat of back-biting and accusations that may not have been seen on Romania's arts scene since artists had to queue up for Ceausescu's personal patronage.  There are many who hope that the presence of the museum might help to soften perceptions of the building. It has certainly helped it architecturally, even though it takes up only about 4% of the space. A gleaming, glass, wood and white concrete exhibition space has been cut into the once-kitsch wing where the Ceausescus used to have their private apartments.  Inside, too, it makes a positive stab at redemption. There's no permanent collection on show yet, but there are two exhibitions that chart the strange quantum leap that Romania and Romanian art have made in the past 30 years: a retrospective of work by the 1970s avant-gardists Horea Bernea and Paul Neagu, and the self-examinatory, Romanian Artists Love Ceausescu's Palace?! - a show dedicated to a love/hate relationship with the building that houses it.  RALCP?! isn't intended as an overview of contemporary art, but it does make an interesting introduction to the video, installation and photography work happening in the country. More importantly, it presents a fascinating picture of the art world's various views of the Palace. In Iosif Kiraly's Indirect, the building is a picture postcard from the revolution - a "tamed" monster. In Calin Dan's Sample City, it is the background to a Sisyphian urban fairy tale, holding pride of place in a Kafkaesque labyrinth. Daniel Gontz's Trans is a fantasy aid to the building's secret interiors, the spaces the public still can't access. And in Gorzo's Are Jailed Sheep Zebras? - a tribute to the ongoing violence of the Romanian imagination - it is the setting for an urban/rural Transylvanian nightmare. If one thing links all of these works, it is an acknowledgement that the building is there to stay, and to be lived with.  Mihai Oroveanu, museum director, has said he hopes its presence in the House will help "purge" the building. For some, this is already happening. "The place is full of bad memories," says Gita Bratescu, the grande dame of Romanian art. "But putting the museum into such an inhuman space has been a positive thing. This art has humour, and it helps."  For exhibition curator Ruxandra Balaci, the building is a "challenge - huge, ironic, grotesque, everything!" She is sensitive to feelings about its history, but argues that perceptions of it are changing. "The younger generation is disposed to forget the past," she says, "to look to the future."  And yet there are plenty of young, successful Romanian artists who think the installation of the museum in the Palace has turned contemporary art into a government poodle. Among the most vociferous are Dan and Lia Perjovschi. For them, the museum marks a return to the bad old days when the cultural police controlled the arts. "It's a symbol of the past," says Lia Perjovschi. "How can it be a symbol of the future?"  The duo are unhappy that, with a whole city to choose from, the House was the only building the Ministry of Culture would consider for the project. This, they argue, has meant other gallery spaces dotted around the more bohemian Calea Vitoria area closing down. The sole focus for contemporary art now, they say, is the Parliament building. "What is that saying? The government has hijacked contemporary art."  The line from the museum is that the House was the only site the government could afford. But Vlad Nanca agrees with the Perjovschis that this doesn't make the building any more appropriate, or less irredeemable. "I'm not against the museum," he says. 'There are positive things that have come out of it. But exorcism? No, there is nothing you can do to this building to make it all right."  In all the sniping, one man strikes a conciliatory note. Iosif Kiraly - artist, teacher and mentor to many of the younger generation of artists - agrees the House is "not the best place" for the museum. But, he argues, "it's better to put art there than many other things. I had a problem when they put Parliament there. But this is a way of parasiting the building. It's not what Ceausescu would have wanted for it - and that's important."
Tyrant Ceausescu's former palace is now home to a gallery - and Romanians are furious.  James Paul reports.