The Clockwork Curator
Curiosity brings me here.
To the lonely halls of the museums inner workings at night
The only sounds; the scuffle of a mouse and the gentle, rhythmic ticking of the clocks
The heady scent of freshly polished floors illuminate the way to a small, cluttered room. I silently watch as he stoically works, surrounded by clocks and timepieces galore, as the pendulums melodically swing the hands of time steadily towards the chiming hours
Clocks of all shapes and sizes cover every conceivable space and are overwhelming in their similarities and differences. In amongst the chaos of the room, the curators slow movements are concise and methodic as he gently oils the gears of the clocks. Tenderly polishing faces, as a loving mother would wash their own children's.
His body is lean and stooped, his eyes quizzical and searching. Remedying any imperfections that reach his eye with the grace and speed of a gazelle, alert to his surroundings. The curator is comfortable in this space, he needs neither company nor conversation. He has the clocks which count his steps towards the end.
I softly walk away from this mesmerising sight.
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