I am at the Venice Biennale 2017.
A man who is art walks past slowly. He is wearing a long white and navy apron. He jingles quietly like bells.
I photograph him.
Oh fuck. He turns. He comes right up to me and looks directly at me. He speaks quietly. I try not to panic.
He invites me to his garden. I follow. It would be rude not to. Photographing art is not a neutral act.
He leads me through a curtain. Into a Japanese garden.
There is a seat with. A label saying “do not sit”. And a stone tied up in string.
He picks up the stone. He picks up the label. He asks me to sit. I do.
Will I wait for him. Yes. I have become performance art. Lots of people are photographing me.
I wait for him. He comes back. Good. He holds a wooden tray out towards me. There is a sealed letter on it. He says I should open it next time I experience a moment of pure beauty. I say yes.
He thanks me. I thank him. I can stop being art.
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