You look at art when you need an escape.

You look at art when you don’t want to speak.

You look at art and feel like you don’t deserve to take the time doing ‘nothing’ but you do it. The art is good. You get lost for a little bit. But then the nagging feeling bites.

A crotchety bush along the entryway scrapes your leg. Some blood. Manageable. You are a manager. You manage this shit all the time. Sometimes you call yourself a shit manager, managing shit, like shit.

What if there was nothing? What if you didn’t have any of this? You could just feel art when looking at art.

You enter a room, ready to be in the room. You are in the room. You connect with the vibe of the architecture. This space, probably used in 10 different ways, now a gallery.

You’re in it. White space, shadows, grains, marks. A light empty hum. The air is, kind of ‘dirty.’ It’s not dusty, but it’s not new. What’s this space worth?

You hope the artist is making good money. What kind of person are they?

“Bag it, tag it, sell it to the butcher in the store - 0” Phish