I first see them from a distance
Nine is the number I favour—
even focused how my mind wanders—
Three pink marble casts of women
and one Other in front
Three Ages
is three all we have I wonder
And if so in which age do I now occupy (Oh, I think I know)
standing while looking through the arch?
The room is quiet
its occupants art from the gifted whose
names I mostly until today have not known
Yes— the security guard breathes here with me
but he too is art
Still and quiet, occupying a
controlled temperature (and mannered) corner
A high seated black chair
I am movement, looking
Gliding Ghost passing through
I linger here for the sculptures—
Woman: Chrysalis for puberty
Coquetry for youth
Pomegranate Flower for maturity
The artist is Inurria, do you know him?
Resting on his side, though ‘resting’
fails to accurately describe the desperation
etched into the figure’s face,
is Castaway, agony and fear holding to the remains
of a ship’s mast
The faces of the Women are serene
placid cool
Or confident
How interpretation
How knowledge or pretence of it
How Art
How expression and experience
alters us
Shifts and realigns our consideration going forward
My eyes scan the works of others
These rooms are Many
but I see again and again the Woman
the Women in pink marble
and the one Man in peril clinging to safety
naked
I carry them with me through the heavy glass doors
of the gallery
Into the blinding sunlight
of the public street🪶
