We wish our work of art to be once in a lifetime and never again.
– Cristo and Jeanne-Claude
I find them everywhere. Not monumental pieces—islands surrounded with pink fabric (each a loud bloom) or veins of saffron flags winding between miles of frozen trees—but smaller ones. Moss-coated stones. Gutters lined with scarves of water. A blue-curtained window. Roses bundled in burlap. Frost on fallen leaves. I look closely, but don’t find any title cards, so I name them myself.
Wrapped Floor: just before evening, the sun wraps the entire surface in light. Wrapped Bed: swathed in sheets, I realize I am part of the work, so I lie very still. And this morning, I find another—Wrapped Mirror: a shroud of condensation hides my reflection. I almost missed it. The work is already beginning to evaporate.