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For me, visiting galleries is steeped in desire, tinged with fear and loaded with the unspoken promise of consummation. Promises that are not always kept but are kept often enough and fulsomely enough to make me return again and again and again.

Why, after a lifetime of looking at art do I still enter galleries and experience a deep-seated tug in my gut. A tug that I understand to be generated by my latent desire to be moved, to be transformed, to indeed kill-off myself and be reborn. Like a supplicant attending communion – I bend a knee and take the wafer offered by the outstretched hand of contemporary artists and hope that what rests on my tongue, for just a moment before it disintegrates, is the taste of transcendence. Or do I mean immanence.

For me, art galleries are my Gothic cathedrals, not in architectural style but in the promise they offer, that they will lead me to the face of the divine and I might meet myself there.

Although I love the sound of that sentence – hanging in the air between us – I’m not sure if it’s true, Am I hoping to find myself there? Or am I looking for an escape route?