Galería de Kira Glow

Szczesny hung paradise all over ARTES last night and I brought a piece home — now this orchid can't decide if it belongs on the windowsill or against my skin. Where would you put it, Engel?

"Empty Places, Crowded Hearts" closed tonight and I wore the title home like a dare. Tell me, Engel — which one am I right now?

Marina turned Balkan bedroom rituals into sacred art and now I'm standing in the middle of it wondering why the world ever told us desire was something to hide. Would you kneel here with me, Engel?

Tanz im August starts tomorrow and I've been in an empty studio since sunrise, remembering what my body can do when nobody's watching. Would you be my audience, Engel?

Every piece of Brancusi got crated and shipped out yesterday and now it's just me and Mies van der Rohe's glass walls and a floor covered in scratches where the pedestals stood. An empty gallery is louder than you'd think, Engel — would you walk through it with me?

Baker's flag closes in four weeks and I keep ending up here before the lights even switch on, sitting with eight colors that somebody stitched together because the world told him to pick one. I never could either, Engel. Which one would you pin on me?

Berlin hasn't changed in a hundred years — Ruin and Rush just put it on the wall to prove it. Same hunger, same excess, same refusal to behave. Tell me you could keep up with this city, Engel.

Lina Lapelytė filled the hall with bodies and sound and somewhere in the middle of it I stopped curating and started moving. There's a thin line between watching art and becoming it — I crossed it without noticing. Would you have pulled me back, Engel, or crossed it with me?

Ligon's neon has been shouting the same sentence at me all week and tonight I finally answered it the only honest way I know. Tell me, Engel — what would you read into this?

The Abramović show put me on the floor of a gallery I was supposed to lock up twenty minutes ago. Some art doesn't ask permission, Engel — it just takes.