exhaustion is the true mode of the aesthetic experience. deep within this gallery where the bodies have gathered, they immerse themselves in conversation so adjacent to the works that it becomes a question whether the art may be only secondary. one begins to wonder why any have come here at all, when it seems they would be equally at home on a stage or in the most deserted parlor room.
yet there seems to be a truth preserved by their very activity here, as the art facilitates the real-world relations between them. to the degree that they submerge themselves in the aesthetic experience only for a moment, life itself becomes transfigured—a decisive movement has occurred, an evening has passed, and all involved have been part of something much larger than themselves. perhaps it was even their art that was on display here, and after all, there are few higher achievements.
but for the one still looking, there is something else that lurks just beneath this world of appearances. it is just as serene as is it friendless, but it must be coaxed back into the spotlight as must the works themselves, which in all the commotion have been forgotten and left suspended on the walls. this hidden something is more than capable of speaking for itself, it lies in wait for its occasion to be discovered. but since its voice cannot rise up through the ongoing conversation, who will be able to hear it now?
perhaps there is someone here among these many to whom this something would speak, someone who seeks everywhere the quietest sound of the most lonesome whisper. perhaps they recognize it as they only would something just as quiet within themselves. and perhaps this is why, when it has finally found its audience in them, this silent something compels a meaning forth from deep inside. for a moment it furnishes a feeling entirely new, an experience not of this world but only of themselves, this solitary individual who nonetheless knows that they must still be within a world of some sort. but, as this individual is now painfully aware, once such a new world has appeared, it is not as easy for it to be put back.
in an instant this world has grown beyond their control, and the figures within it begin to dart around freely, inverted completely like photo negatives. they are far less chatty than their real-world counterparts, but certainly no less full of life, spinning and toiling in a manner that appears endless. they repeat themselves to be seen the same way twice, thereby being transformed in their own duplication, or else they rearrange themselves in a way unimaginable, so that this new world which is the composite of their activity may evoke two different meanings altogether.
but no matter how breathlessly the figures in this new world move about, they are doomed to be only imitations of what is real. it is easy to forget that the old world has continued spinning on in the background, until the images borne of it are found to have a necessary end, even if their movements once seemed as long as an eternity.
here this single individual finds themselves in the gallery a second time, having totally exhausted the aesthetic experience, and their attention falls once again to the dizzying sound of conversation. this time it becomes clear that something great is taking place—in this gallery where all have come to be seen seeing art, they themselves have taken on the uncanny quality of an appearance. and therein lies the true secret of the aesthetic experience, the double movement which is its advantage over the real world to which it owes its life: this time when the bodies in the gallery speak, while the air may fill with the sound of their senseless chatter, the space maintains a silence that outlasts them all.
yes, perhaps it is this silence which is everything—it has the patience of the absolute. in the very same way as the works of art themselves, this silence looks to you as an individual, it beckons you toward it, and the idle talk falls away as though it were passing to the wings at the furthest edges of the theatre. when at last this silence stands before you, when at last it has grown close enough to speak, it asks you only one thing: what it is you think that you may have seen here.