At the Art Museum

At the Art Museum

Anna McColgan

This picture fantasizes melting still and this one wants to fuck some kids. How nice it'd be to have my thoughts and feelings be this complicated. Why the lamp dark. Why the circles round and round. And why the shadows. A woman carves herself. There is a room for this. There is a bed for you in the asylum of a white-walled nation. If you're so pissed then why show up? Tell your tongue to keep its dayjob. Attend in grateful way this slice through hierarchy of needs that is the museum free day. Prance in plays at actuality on an empty stomach, with misplaced priority. Or just drink some coffee. Not one of my fantasies begins this empty, yellow light glares down on scene contingent on its thorough installation. This unsculpted sculpture thinks that theft is a refusal, that it somehow works against a thieving nation. I think about hiding out here for the night to ask the person who must dust it off if they would like their picture taken or to take a seat. Art is when that sculptor finally rubs that person's feet. Every museum that I walk in, I just wanna run back out, and take the crowd with me. This whole building could be well-replaced with a white noise machine. When not stolen goods, the products of thief's anxious indigestion. But you don't get it, don't you see? He's being what he'd like no one to be? Cool, then what you're saying is he never meant to talk to me. That his work is incomplete until we all decide to leave.


Also by Anna McColgan

Produce Panic

At the Art Museum