The MOMA

The MOMA is blank except for its artwork. It has no distinct smell, no content except for the master pieces it holds. The white walls and ceilings are only broken by the installed lighting and the thick black tracks they rest on. The windows looking out to the main space can be used to see up to the top floor, the yellow backpack of a student bobbing just beyond the line of sight. Or you can look out the window and see nothing, only the blank white canvas glazing over your eyes. But it’s better this way. So that when you turn your head away from the black hole you can see the sweeping of color against the wall. The clear walls are now contrasted against the vibrancy of the paintings. Picture frames become borders that separate the two existences. The hall fills up with people. A girl carrying an Abercrombie and Fitch bag sticks her face as close as possible to Anselm Kiefer’s drawing before she vanishes to another room. Her gray attire blending into the drawings. A guy in his down vest takes pictures, a French couple snuggles on a bench.