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Spivack 87 Kathleen Spivack The Museum of Fine Arts No one more stiff than live musuem guards fixed at standstill on aching feet. Rembrandt no longer impressed them nor the darkened surfaces of other Old Masters in need of a cleaning. They watched us, perhaps only inspired into motion by art thieves. How quickly, as if ashamed, we walked past them, covering our mouths even while we gestured to each other. "Here, look at this." "And this," standing in front of each picture, solemnly. Why is Art so tediously educational? I wondered. Why did my feet hurt? Why did I long so to get outdoors, though perhaps I might never see Titian again? The gilt frames, mourning, glared down at us in our haste. The paintings gloomed in their cages for changes of scene. "Don't touch," a guard cautioned in whispers, standing next to the little Degas ballerina who looked down at her right toe, sadly. How desolate the museum when outside it was raining. We entered and left past 88 the minnesota review the Pollock-drips, shook out and unfolded umbrellas, reclaimed ourselves from the coat check girl, the vaulted halls and fled to strong coffee and creampuffs, our idle vulgar afternoon; the city awash in primary colors, reflections of stoplights and taxis framed in the real puddles. ...

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