I open the gallery door, walk in with that sinking feeling I always have in galleries. It's the carpets that do it to me, the hush, the sanctimoniousness of it all: galleries are too much like churches, there's too much reverence, you feel there should be some genuflecting going on. Also I don't like it that this is where paintings end up, on these neutral-toned walls with the track lighting, sterilized, rendered safe and acceptable. It's as if somebody's been around spraying the paintings with air freshener, to kill the smell. The smell of blood on the wall.
The narrator expresses an unease when entering art galleries, likening their atmosphere to that of a church. The silence and reverence create a suffocating feeling, as if there's an expectation to demonstrate respect for the art displayed. The ambiance fosters a sense of disconnection, stripping the artwork of its original emotion and context.
They lament that paintings are sterilized in this environment, reduced to mere objects on neutral walls illuminated by...
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