A statue sits on its chest in the corner. His white marble face has been deliberately smashed; its pieces lie in a pile on the floor. One mother points to it, warning her children that this is what happens when you touch things in a museum. The next mother stares at it, wondering with her children why a broken statue is in the museum. Then she watches her son bend down and pick up the nose. A young man working in the room tells the boy not to touch, "its supposed to be like that," he says, when the boy informs him that the statue is broken. "Oh," the mother and son say, not completely understanding. And the boy chucks the nose back into the pile of rubble.
In the next room, a large cube of needles sits; an already aggravated employee stands guarding it. A boy reaches. "Don't touch,” she says. "I didn't!" he yells, his mother standing silently beside him. "You did," she fights back, "you touched it and all those pins fell. The artist worked very hard to put this together and you ruined it," she says flatly, her face flushing. The boy and his mother walk away.
I walk into another crowded room.
In the next room, a large cube of needles sits; an already aggravated employee stands guarding it. A boy reaches. "Don't touch,” she says. "I didn't!" he yells, his mother standing silently beside him. "You did," she fights back, "you touched it and all those pins fell. The artist worked very hard to put this together and you ruined it," she says flatly, her face flushing. The boy and his mother walk away.
I walk into another crowded room.
No comments:
Post a Comment