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I squeeze through people.  Come close to some images trying to read the name of the artist or the picture. I struggle. I come too close to paintings and get concerned about hindering others. Though could they really be bothered by that? I think most of them are just wandering here like me, expecting to get or feel something because visiting exhibitions is ‘high-class’ and ‘highly cultured’. If so, something is meant to condescend upon you, right? People here exhibit themselves. Long Haired guys. Girls in berets. They must be students from a linguistics university nearby. Not so long ago I was one myself. But I have never been to the Palace of the Arts before. I think all in all I missed a lot during my uni years. Studied too much. Was afraid of too much.

I’m getting astray in labyrinths. Drinking water. Pouring some rehydrating powder on my hand, then washing it down from my thermos. Beating myself up a bit for eating all the wrong stuff. Reminding myself once more about the importance of hydration for eyesight. I’m dry. My hands are dry and chapped. And my eyes are too dry to see. 

Now I start to worry I’m getting lost here. Have I already seen this picture? Can’t find any looking familiar. There must be. He said he was taking part in this. Not sure whether I want to see him here or not. Maybe yes, maybe no. Could be fun to meet someone. So far, everything is foreign.

I get a glance of the guy in a fuzzy sweater. Long hair of course, tied back with an elastic band. I tried to small-talk him when we were entering. I like this strange kind. He reminds me of a guy from uni. He’s tall and smiling to himself for some reason. Was unwilling to talk to me.

Have I already seen this picture? I need to take a photo. Why do we do it though? If only to establish the fact you’ve been to a place. This triptych caught my eye, gonna take a pic.

This yellow picture has a QR-code on it. No, it’s not a sticker. It’s a part of the painting. There’s a sheet with an explanation. Something about the importance of bees.

I need to walk through the gallery carefully once again. Why can’t I find his paintings? I overheard someone saying something about ‘downstairs’, but I didn’t see them on the first floor either. Is there another ‘downstairs’? I go back down and turn right. I’ve seen this. I return and walk another isle and here is the picture that started the exhibition. I’m lost. It’s hard struggling to see and navigate. I would feel better if someone was with me. Seems like I won’t see his works. There’s no one to help. Well I’ve seen them before anyways. I hesitate. Should I walk to the gallery once more? Or should I head to the exit? Stuffiness. I’m dressed too warm.

I move slowly in the crowd. People are swarming. My eyesight is weak. But suddenly I noticed him ahead. His brown coat. He’s in counter flow. Should I call him? He’s not alone. With her? Huh. People are swarming. We meet in passing, so close my hand touches his coat. He is looking far ahead, above my head. Same with her. I’m short. The visor of my hat must be covering my face. Maybe it’s better this way. They pass. I hesitate, then decide to follow. Is he going to lead me somewhere ‘downstairs’ to his works? They stop. I stop in the same hall pretending I’m inspecting an exhibit. Then try to come closer. I have a distinctive coat and the hat we spoke about on Monday. But I’m not notice. Or ignored? Maybe It's better this way.

I walk away. I’ve seen enough.

I’m confused. With her? Really? His inclination to always go backwards and hold on to the past is ineradicable. Huh. Best wishes.

These exhibitions are bulllshit. I need to catch a train. No, after all, the artworld will do just fine without me. 

Has he seen me? No, I won’t come next Monday. There’s no point in getting all worked up  for nothing. Enough. I’m gonna be just fine. Past is past.

It’s better at home. Well, he holds on to the past and I like to end things up. Thus you get freedom and space for newcomings. I’ve been leaving space for him in my life and now it feels so free. I’m gonna be just fine. Past is past.


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