I just don't understand why the sculpture room is always empty.
To me, it's the essence of art: that which you can see and feel and walk around. It's just so...there. Right in front of your eyes, right in front of your body. Sculptures are so alive, you can almost see them breathe.
At the moment, I'm looking at a new piece to the museum. It's a single piece of onyx, jet black and silent. The sculputre is vaguely humanoid in shape, though ambiguous Looking at it makes the hair on my arms stand on end. Deidre, it's called. The placard underneath it reads,
"The name Deidre is of Gaelic origin. The meaning of the name is uncertain, but it is thought to mean pain or sorrow."
I ponder this for a few moments until the silence of the sculpture room is broken slightly by the patter of shoes on the floor. I turn around to see a girl of about seventeen enter the room. Her indigo eyes banish Deidre from my mind.