Guards at the Gallery. Elderly men in blue suits, two to each doorway, and they follow you around from painting to painting, so there's always an official presence over your shoulder. There are more guards than visitors. It's stressful and creepy.
Small children on the floors, lotus posture before the paintings, sketching in tablets on their laps. Third or fourth graders. They're more beautiful than the art.
Long ago in a galaxy far, far away, my college love and I found Jackson Pollack here, and, I think, Robert Natkin. Today there are lovely Russian 18th century icons. But I'm gone in three or four minutes, feeling I need a shower to scrub officials' breath off the back of my neck.