I ran to the Museum to get away from the humidity.
The room in which Constantin Brancusi’s sculptures are displayed is very high-ceilinged and painted all white with high, semicircular arches like a Romanesque church. The sculptures are arranged in alcoves like objects of veneration. At the far end, Brancusi’s Birds in Space stretch upwards.
There are usually no guards in this room: they are next door on the left with the Cy Twombly scribble-scribble triptych which they are protecting from the additional scribbles of rightly provoked visitors. Or they are in the Marcel Duchamp rooms on the right where one day I watched a man from New York dressed all in black put his index finger to his lips to warn against snitching and spin the circular bottle rack.
I restrained myself from placing the palms of my hands on these cool Brancusi bowed heads. You want to lean against The Three Penguins in their Antarctic cold; and hug The Kiss ; and soar with The Bird(s) in Space. Away, away from this heat and humidity.