Musea -at their worst- are where art goes to die.
Every year I visit several exhibits. Usually I leave with the feeling of having gawked at a well preserved corpse.
It might be that I go there with the wrong expectations?
Ideally I’d like to leave feeling closer to the artist or gain a greater understanding of the work itself.
It’s so sterile.
Here is the artwork.
There is a plaque with a summation of the life of the person that created it in 365 characters.
When I die, I’d like to commission the author of those plaques, to write my eulogy, to make sure I’m proper dead.