Sculpture: That’s something you bump into when
you back up to look at a painting.
                                              —Barrett Newman

The gallery is small
given that the Kandinsky
I’m looking at is large,
too large for the room
and the track-lighting overhead
glares harshly off the paint
because the ceiling isn’t high enough
so I back up to see the painting
more clearly with the proper perspective
and I barely nudge a statue, Greek,
an antiquity that doesn’t quite
belong in a room with Kandinsky and me.
So this security guard comes over,
touches my shoulder, says, Don’t
lean on the sculpture.  I say, I’m not leaning
I’m backing up to look at the painting.
and he says, We have rules; you can’t
touch the exhibit and I say
I’m not touching it, I’m not even
looking at it; I’m looking at the painting
and he says, You won’t think
your mouth is so smart
when I throw you out of here,
and I say, That’s a fine thing
to consider, given that the gallery
is virtually empty and it’s not like
this place is going berserk with
all the rich and famous patrons
crowding around.  He says, We
can do quite well without patrons
like you. I say, Kandinsky
had me in mind when he created
that painting which is far beyond
the rudimentary understanding of a security guard
who wouldn’t know the difference
between a Renaissance painting
 and a soup can—if it
weren’t labeled as art.  And besides
I say, that statue is Greek; it’s had
its nose broken, several times,
and its arms were cut off long ago
so it’s not like there’d be any
real damage if it were to fall
while I’m looking at the Kandinsky
and not leaning on the Greek as you said
and how would you like your
nose to look like that? 
He puts both hands on my shoulders
shoves me past Miro, all his fantasy figures
staring, past DeChirico’s ruins,
past a nude, I think, descending, past
one Bible story after another 
until I’m outside, in a garden
surrounded by sculpture,
a large nude—Henry Moore I believe—
with full thighs, heavy breasts,
a body no one could break
in a gazillion years.  And I think
this isn’t so bad as I look at it
from every angle, backing up
until I fall across a garden bench,
Victorian, ornamental iron,
filigree of peacocks and vines,
freshly labeled with an artistic sign 
that reads BE CAREFUL FRESH PAINT. 

 

From Far From the Temple of Heaven (Black Moss Press,2005).  
Used here with the author's permission.