The moan emanated from the Mckinlock Court. At first it was difficult to tell from where it was coming from: it wasn't from the two loud talking women discoursing about their feet. As I walked past Homer's fresh catch and the landscapes of New York, it came from the corner of the room; it was the security woman for the Court.
She was five foot tall, black, black hair, blue suite with a red tie, hands clutching her stomach. Her head bowed moaning about her last doctor's appointment or a daughter that doesn't call.
She moved in a chiasmus into a perfect diagonal with Lincoln's head. A bronze Lincoln that Daniel Chester French also decided to bow down under the weight of his nation as well.
She continued to moan diagonally with Linclon for twenty seconds; then quiet for two to three minutes; then 20 more seconds of moaning. A real piece of human art that no one even pretends to recognize: why is she there, why does she stand with arms clutching some deep wound in her chest?
The moan goes again in reverse crescendo, a loud ohm that becomes quiet. Is it cubist, or impressionistic moaning?
I observe and then reflect; is this all I can do? I look at myself: jeans, nice shirt, smart aleck snobby suit coat, can I help her? I move out and find another security oerson, a black wit reddish dyed hair. I tell her about the sculpture and then meander around a bit, seeing what transpires.
She moans her way out and I ask Red if she is okay. Red says, "There's nothing wrong with her. It's just a habit."
Some habit: to moan at a public art museum. I imagine it she had a tip jar she could do ok. Since she is just another casualty of bad lighting, she's just ignored.
