A young man stepped into the already crowded room. Baffling assortments of objects were carefully placed around the plain concrete walls, showcased by old lights scattered around with a certain precision. He glanced around. In this corner sat a pile of fruit, in that a Florentine lady, over there a sunset in the French countryside, and there a dilapidated black and white building. An empty doorway led to a dark space before the next room, where he could see various figures clustered around similar objects. Stepping closer, the young man could hear the conversations of a few different clumps of people.

A scholarly man adorned with polished scientific regalia address his colleagues: “Well, gentlemen, this analysis is, of course, far too preliminary for any concrete conclusions, but after a nonetheless thorough examination of the paint’s composition – “
The newcomer interrupted him.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude by barging in like that, but could you tell me where the art gallery is? I guess I’m a bit lost…”
The scholar studied him for a second before answering.
“Precisely where you are already – is there not art on the walls?” He pushed his glasses back up his nose to better inspect the questioner.
“Well, yes, but – you see – I… I saw you taking all those measurements, and well, I assumed that with your talk of chemical formulas and moister concentration – I assumed that this must be the museum’s restoration room,” he stammered.
The scholars elicited a few chuckles before one spoke back.
“Don’t be preposterous; how could one analyze art without knowing such things? Now, if you’re through…” He glanced down at his clipboard. “… We have only completed preliminary evaluation procedures.
His colleagues all nodded vigorously and resumed their business of tearing the piece apart, dissecting it with various scientific looking tools, measuring and theorizing as they went along.
The young man gaped at them for a second in horror, but assured of their officiality, thought it above his concerns, and moved on to another group of observers.

Around a painting of a regal young woman, a herd of nondescript stood discussing some reality TV show or another. Feeling a bit dismayed, he nonetheless gave his eyes to the painting for some time, as he felt it must deserve, for it was a more breathtaking piece than any other in the room. Gazing at the woman in the painting, he announced: “She’s beautiful.” The woman in the painting was indeed beautiful, her face carrying a noble and proud expression of compassion and wisdom, eyes illustrious and reflective, and hair that fell like – at that moment, one of the TV herd broke in.
“Keep your opinions to yourself, tyrant! I’ll believe and do whatever I want!” She screeched. “Besides,” her friend spat with no less derision, “This painting is another sexist outrage!”
The young man stood stupefied in the torrent of her malice, but her parting remark rang clear: “Get away, bigot. We don’t want intolerant chauvinistic pigs like you here.”

Walking further into the room, he wondered if it had been a mistake to come here tonight. One last try, he thought. A few morose characters in the corner were clad in black, smoking cigarettes carelessly with berets flopped over their heads. This smaller but serious looking crowd stood next to the most confusing piece of all, a canvass blank but for a solitary red square in the center.
As he stepped up to the painting, they all took apathetic drags on their designer cigarettes and stared at him. For a moment, he had the not-so ridiculous notion that they were there to judge him. After some uncomfortable ponderance on the abstraction before him, he decided to break the silence of sullen eyes glaring at him.
“I don’t… really get it,” he murmured.
One of the morose, abject looking characters took an exaggeratedly careless drag on his cigarette and snorted at him. “Of course not, you are far too much of a tool to understand the transendence of beauty and suffering that it represents.”
The newcomer thought for a second of asking him what he really meant, but thought better of it and made for the doorway.