grounds for admittanceEvie Shockley
who imported the bevy of peacocks to the sculpture gardens? or did they just crash the party one afternoon, taking the curators’ concern for permission? they stalk amongst the art works, noble, mobile, profiling delicate mohawks against unforgiving bronze and static stone. a peacock’s call sounds like the color of his breast, a blue so loud it howls. walk towards one—act as if it’s that metal figure you’re interested in—and watch him throw up his tail. i gotcha master piece right here, he says, in perfect body language. he rotates on deliberate feet, keeping all his eyes on you. if you were a peahen, you would know how to appreciate this display. you think of other gardens, where labor sculpts bodies as bodies shape land, gorgeously, art for living’s sake, brilliant masculinity you watch from windows and pay in cash.
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