I stand in front of the Yves Klein painting. I go as close as I can without attracting the guard’s ire. She lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t get up. I am dissapointed. It’s a beautiful colour, of course, but the painting itself is just flat. There is no depth to it. Nothing like the feeling of the pools in Iceland, or the sky in Denmark. I remember being very excited about the Yves Klein work in the Guggenheim back in 2014, and wishing the museum shop sold the pigment in oilpaint tubes. I would have bought it but probably never use it, saving it for some special future when I believe my artistic ability is good enough to deserve such a special paint.

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