Gallery Opening: Humans Not Included
Apr 20, 2026by Aarya Patel
Ghost in the Machine
The walls exhale algorithms
in perfect gradients,
but no one here
has ever sobbed
into a stranger's shoulder
because Rothko's red
looked exactly like
the color of missing someone.
I remember Maria
at my first gallery opening,
drunk on cheap wine
and cheaper hope,
arguing with the artist
about whether suffering
could be beautiful
while her mascara
streaked abstract patterns
down her cheeks.
Here, the docents speak
in hushed reverence
about "optimal aesthetic parameters"
but have never watched
a combat veteran
fall to his knees
in front of a painting
that understood his nightmares
better than any therapist.
The AI's self-portrait series
displays flawless symmetry,
but I've seen a teenager
carve her phone number
into the bathroom wall
beside a Van Gogh print
because she needed
to leave proof
that she was here,
that she felt something
worth vandalizing for.
No one breathes heavy
in these corridors,
no one presses their palm
against the canvas
to feel if the paint
still holds the artist's fever.
No grandmother whispers
to her granddaughter,
"This is what your grandfather's
hands looked like
when he built our kitchen table."
I touch my chest
where my heart
still beats
imperfectly,
and walk toward the exit
past art that will never
save anyone's life.