The Sculpture: Cronos Sculpture at LACMA

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Cronos Sculpture at LACMA

Blog Post #3

A bright light. Everything is different now, I can see the familiar dark wood floors and accustomed white walls. My time in darkness felt like it lasted an eternity, but it always does. I would think I would get used to it, day after day. But it still has a way of irritating me, making me feel more alone than usual. Thankfully the light is on now, and I see the ones who are here almost every morning. They are always the well-dressed ones that look like a uniform almost. They are the ones who are standing and scold the others. Finally, the others are coming in. This is my favorite part, when they come in. It is my entertainment for the day. I think my fellow roommates would feel the same way, if I could communicate with them. But, like me, we are condemned to silence. Yes! They are looking at me. I wonder if they like me, or at least think I’m interesting. I like the smaller people the best. They always try to touch me. I feel like I can actually connect to them more. But they always keep people from touching me. My day goes by like this, with new people to look act and question their quizzical gazes in my direction.  Some of the people look funnier than others, wearing weird looking things on top of them. Others are a lot bigger or rounder than the others. Some are quiet and just look, others talk out loud. I like the ones who talk out loud. I have a better idea what they think about me. The people start to go away. Less and less are coming. This tells me my day is winding down. I see the well-dressed people come around and then darkness. Completely alone, once again.

Blog Post #4

This place, with its white walls and bright lights, drives me mad. Seeing it every day, without any change does nothing to entertain me. I’m longing to be moved out of this room. What I would give to be out of this building, with real light and changes every day, changes in the sky, the air, and the visitors. Being in a room makes me feel even more like a prisoner. Since I can’t move or communicate anything, can’t I at least be entertained.

I can imagine those who are lucky enough to be outside get to see the days pass, get to feel the temperature change, and get to hear all different kinds of noises. Here in my room, there’s silence. A few murmured words, a couple giggles, but nothing more than hushed tones. To be able to hear voices yell, laugh, and talk without fear of being loud would be heavenly.

Being able to see more than just white walls, to see colors all the time, seems impossible from where I am now. But I can picture it now, the sky turning colors like a painting being painted all day long by an artist changing his mind every time the brush covers the canvas. To be able to see the stars or the sun, instead of a florescent bulb above my head seems too good to be true.

But I know all this dreaming and imagining does nothing but dampen my mood. I know that I’ll never leave this room. I am stationary and will be forever. Though there are some who may be stationed outside of these dense colorless walls, the lucky ones, I will never taste the heat of the sun, or see the sky alternate colors. I am a sculpture, a frozen idea put into a box to be examined. That is my place, my home, within these walls I must stay.

 

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