Every three weeks I work as a guard. I don’t mind. It’s a small museum. Just the three of us. Sometimes, I’m the Director. Sometimes I work HR, PR and order lunch. Can’t say being a guard is my favorite. But it does have its pluses. Like, last week I noticed, wedged in the thick white paint in the upper quadrant of our Jackson Pollack, a match head. Pretty cool. Huh?
When I’m on guard duty, I play this game probably out of boredom. I watch our visitors watching the paintings, sculptures and video loops and wonder what kind of music do they listen to, what do they eat for breakfast and what is the one thing they absolutely won’t tolerate in their lives. Naturally, I have no way of verifying my imaginative impressions. But that doesn’t stop me from continuing what is probably an insidious habit. Last week, it got me into trouble. My daughter introduced me to her new boyfriend, a kid I’ve seen hanging around the sculpture garden. I had the impression that he was waiting for me to look the other way so that he could light up. Now, what am I supposed to do with this bad feeling lingering in my gut every time I see him with her?