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Museum Fatigue
By Anna Potter Upon viewing “Three Figures at the Base of Crucifixion” by Francis Bacon Garish orange framed by sterile white walls, black hole churning in redbrick universe, and I, small spectator, sucked into its revolution. Fifteen is the age of revelation, the year of waking up to the sharp edges of this flesh-suit, that eternal itching, that toothless smile, pedestrian still in matters of horror, that worldly sting still fresh on my cheek. * Consciousness demands screaming, I think. The lungs of a newborn can attest to this theory, how we all emerge, gory and guileless, shrieking into this world. But for the dying, for the dead, …
