The Art Museum

“In this place where we met” peels away the foremost trees in three dimensions, making visible the photo-paper the work is printed on, and illustrating the transience of the moment. While this is occurring (for art is constantly acting, a perpetual motion device of beauty), I peer down to the floor. The constituent hexagons repeat like a flattened honeycomb. People around me buzz in this beehive, missing everything. The curator queen bee ignores the scenery and focuses on the drones, glaring angrily. I stare in awe of “In this place where we met”, drifting slowly past its features like the cloud in the background. I float upstairs to meet the egotism of art; the nude sculptures all assuming that their own existence is the pinnacle of imitation. Do we wear clothes to enhance or hide beauty? I see Charles Bonnycastle, and he has a headache; I wonder if he’s trapped in his painting? Does he wonder where his mathematics have gone, and why the bemused bees look upon him fleetingly with their fragmented thousands of eyes? Art does wonder, it always will, ‘when will someone look on and feel what I feel?”