the tate had brought many things to loren on that gloomy, tempestuous day last november: inspiration, aesthetic pleasure, and a profound appreciation for the people who write the wall texts that accompanied the more avant-garde "works of art." although she had graduated last spring with a degree in art history, the glass of water that claims to be "an oak tree" still baffled her. but her determination, however, to absorb, experience, and ruminate on all things art-related trumped her bewilderment on a daily basis.
as loren sat in the museum's coffee shop and waited for her friend to return from the bathroom, she wondered why she couldn't create something museum-worthy. well, yes, of course she was an art historian not an artist, but that didn't mean she had nothing to say. in fact, loren had a great deal to say. she wanted to say: here, here is a pile of rocks i have assembled just so. they are beautiful because i have created them in a way that no one else considered. or even, here are few lines that make a wonderfully spindly tree on this rare bit of parchment, isn't it pleasing? as she sat, glancing from time to time at the door to the ladies room and her friend's abandoned and rapidly cooling coffee, loren began to jot down things she observed, fully intending to work them into some sort of story or work of art later down the road. unfortunately, though she remembered to grab the yellow roses, she put down her notebook and never saw it again.
someone else can have those thoughts, she said.
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