A dozen men are seated on folding chairs arranged in a semi-circle — not facing inward, group therapy-style, but in row, as if they were riding in individual roller coaster cars making a gentle turn. They sit motionless in identical poses, hands in their laps, feet squarely planted, staring straight ahead. Their dress may be identical, too, but only in a most unremarkable way.
A dusting of fine grey powder obscures differences in hair color and other features. There may be no differences.
At random intervals, one of the men will rise from his seat and quietly leave the room. None of the others acknowledges the departures.
I watch three or four do this, then turn around to view the wall behind me.
Paintings four feet square are arrayed in no discernible pattern. All contain the same vibrant shade of orange. Two monochromatic canvases, one above and slightly to the right, are entirely covered with a solid gout of the orange. In another, the color recedes to the background as three naked figures emerge from steam. One painting features the orange only in a small patch nearly overcome by dominant blues.
I am interpreting as I go. The men are dying, all from the same disease, and these swatches are what is left of them. Of their lives. Their souls. Their memories.