The doors close at six. By nine, the gallery belongs to three people: a guard named Joseph, a restorer named Ines, and us.
A different kind of looking
Without crowds, the paintings change. You stop reading the wall labels. You stop checking your phone. You stand in front of a seven-metre abstract canvas and simply let it happen to you.
The glowing one
Joseph has a favourite. Of course he does. A huge field of deep blue with a single amber seam through the centre. "On some nights," he says, "I swear it's brighter than the lights."
"Museums are the last places where we agree to be quiet together."
Closing time, again
At midnight, Joseph walks the rooms one last time, switching off the lights section by section. The amber seam is the last thing to disappear.
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