At a length beyond which I’ve yet given myself the proper runway, I’d like to write about what happens inside (and at the limits of) museums.
I get angry, at the wall card text and their choices of words.
And yet I also occasionally delight in their small narrative obstructions.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I get distracted by all of the patrons; their shoes, their pacing, their notebooks, their clothing, and especially couples and the way in which the art seems to act as a prism into their relationship.
And perhaps even more so by the security guards standing watch over the rooms and the lines on the floor from which invisible force fields ascend. While at once it seemed like an incredibly tedious and perhaps difficult line of work — standing all day and playing wall monitor — it also seemed like an incredibly interesting opportunity.
There was some other kind of expression of change — measured by the rooms — if you watched the exhibit floor like a sailor witnessing her tides.
