Split into Pieces

I find art museums cathartic, especially modern art. It takes my mind away every day worries and to an alternate world. I’m fortunate to have a museum a few blocks from my apartment.

Saturday, I go my usual time to the museum and fortunately there is an art exhibit with a full house of art enthusiasts. While struggling through the crowds of people, I find myself in front of an unusual statue. I fixate on it, studying every aspect, and the artist's name reads "Anonymous."

I furrow my brows in awe. An outstretched arm in midair holds onto a woman’s leg, wearing a stiletto heel; the leg is covered in grey stockings. My mind goes to the artist portraying a dancer. Even more fascinating is the blue feather shawl with the arm stretching down and a hand holding onto a white chair while the other leg is stretching outward to the right, with a hand leaning gently on it, holding what appears to be a blue mirror. I’m bleary-eyed and can’t make out the rest.

“Interesting piece of artwork,” a woman comments to me.

“Indeed, it is.”

“Not quite my taste though,” she says and walks away, leaving me in wonderment.

Yes, I think. I know what the artist is portraying. A lonely dancer split into pieces.

Yes, that’s it. Split into pieces, just like me.