London Eye (2016)
I want you to picture yourself in a
museum. You are staring at the art
on the wall, the very creation that
fills your life with meaning. Your
hand firmly grips the camera close
to your chest; a shared moment
of intimacy between your heartbeat
and the warmth of an LCD screen.
Then you feel another, a man with rough
hands touch your shoulder, interjecting
a motive into the frame. No pictures are allowed,
the man reminds you, but all you hear is a man’s
inability to appreciate the very thing he curates.
Your grip loosens from your camera, forcing it
to dangle in front of you like an amputated appendage.
A seed is planted. Thoughts of anarchy start
to dance in your mind’s eye, each more intense
then the last. In that fateful moment, against
your upbringing and against all odds, you make
a decision that is exclusively yours, including
the repercussions that will shake your core.
Click, goes the camera. By taking that picture,
you have rebelled against an injustice. However,
your revolutionary act will not be remembered
in the textbooks. Instead, it will be immediately
forgotten by the man with soulless eyes as
you depart toward pastures of green and awe.
The photograph is proof you won’t soon forget.
You have forged a memory contained to an
institution outside of your own confinement.