The hall was high and cool and dim, the lights set carefully to age the paintings as little as possible. Between the stone walls, the air filled up with centuries. She thought sometimes of an Egyptian tomb, and not only when she stood in the hall of the scribes. A sort of time-capsule or reliquary in which they’d shut up all of the precious things for their voyage to the next life. A stone ship sailed the waters of the afterlife and she and Florence rode deep in its hold, looking up at the circuit diagrams of the procession to judgment and thence to the land of the dead.
The dead, whose works pressed on her from within, behind the eyes and in the chest, but most importantly in the hands.
L. A. (Angie) Stavros and her mentor Florence, in the Metropolitan Museum.