As you enter the museum, a breathtaking view unfolds. Natural light is the currency of life here, casting dramatic shadows on marble sculptures, causing meticulously textured eyebrows to appear dour and severe. Walking forward, the geometric atrium opens into a massive square room. The floor drops away behind a sturdy steel railing, forming a wrap-around view of the exhibits below. Tiny hand prints formed from sticky snacks and wonder adorn the glass that spans between the barrier and the floor.
This is one of the most unique museums in the world. Not only has the artist found an audience in his lifetime, he alone held the vision for how they should be displayed and demanded that his preferences be respected. He painstakingly placed them all in a home that he designed, with lighting that accentuates his favorite parts and hides the features he still finds shame in if he looks too closely. The light is for him as much as it is for his guests.
The museum was built at great personal expense. His work was tireless and separated him from the ones he thought he loved. The time and labor that he invested proves otherwise, though, does it not? He had to sacrifice the narrative that he did care for their well being before he could finish what he had set out to do. Even those who worked alongside him were at last alienated. He was never satisfied with their work, and eventually fired them all so that he could do the remaining work himself.
Oh how glorious it can be on a beautiful day. August 9th of a non-leap year, in fact, is the day it was designed for. He never told anyone of this detail before he met Sandra. She had visited hundreds of times, but every year he waited for her on that day. She never came. She had her own reasons, he assumed. Each of those days, he had come in, terrified of what she would think. Maybe it was better that she not see the expressions on their faces. The bright, late summer exterior was deceptive. The adjoining park was full of new families making faces as their toddlers struggled to walk over mole hills, dog owners throwing mesh frisbees for their cocka-whatevers. It was, in fact, the day that the monsters came out. As the sun hung lower in the sky, the blackness that grew from the feet of the statues threatened to detach, to roam free.