I. Original Work (Please do not touch.)
Throughout the gallery, ghosts, of all senses:
ordinary invisible ghosts that no one can see
except the blind, ghosts in the audio room that only
the deaf can hear, ghosts in the thresholds felt only
by phantom limbs, ghosts hanging around like paintings
suspended too high to be experienced as intended by anyone
sitting, only discernible to those floating above their own
bodies as if dissociating in front of the Monkmans.
Each ghost born from that part of a person that dies
when, creeping through the museum on any Tuesday,
slowly, frame by frame, you find there is no art for you.
No portraits of haunting resemblance, no shared institutions
on the didactic panels, no synonymy of color or shape
or function— just the realization that everything beautiful
ever created for you was the result of an explicit request,
and now on the subway home it is harder to believe
that the boy actually wants to hold your hand, that you
are not simply part of a quietly-funded diversity initiative
whose sponsor is very satisfied, very proud of himself,
putting up with your moods as you stare slack-jawed
at your reflection in the subway window and understand:
this is the only portrait of yourself that you get. And now
the train arrives at the next stop, your reflection disappears
in the station’s cruel light, you are not home yet,
and now over the loudspeakers comes crackling
the city’s insistent refrain:
Please stand clear of the closing doors.
Please do not make this harder on everyone.
II. Tactile Replica (Feel free to touch this version of the art.)
Throughout the gallery, ghosts, of all senses:
ordinary invisible ghosts that no one can see
except the blind, ghosts in the audio room that only
the deaf can hear, ghosts in the thresholds felt only
by phantom limbs, ghosts hanging around like paintings
hung too high to be experienced as intended by anyone
in a chair, only discernible to those floating above their own
bodies as if dissociating in front of the Monkmans.
Each ghost born from that part of a person that dies
when, creeping through the museum on any Tuesday,
slowly, frame by frame, you find there is no art for you.
No portraits of haunting resemblance, no shared institutions
on the didactic panel, no synonymy of color or shape
or function— just the realization that everything beautiful
ever created for you was the result of an explicit request,
and now on the subway home it is harder to believe
that the boy actually wants to hold your hand, that you
are not simply part of a quietly-funded diversity initiative
whose sponsor is very satisfied, very proud of himself,
putting up with your moods as you stare slack-jawed
at your reflection in the subway window and understand:
this is the only portrait of yourself that you get. And now
the train arrives at the next stop, your reflection disappears
in the station’s cruel light, you are not home yet,
and now over the loudspeakers comes
crackling the city’s insistent refrain:
Please stand clear of the closing doors.
Please do not make this harder on everyone.