Peering through the frosted glass door, the gallery looks closed. It’s a few minutes past five and only a handful of people remain on the street, ducking into doors one or two at a time. Most have wandered off to meet friends for happy hour or settle in for an early dinner. Inside, the light feels dimmer than it should be, but I assume it’s intentional and say nothing. 

Moments later, a mother hesitates at the door before walking in with her young son. “We thought you were closed!” 

The gallery sitter apologizes. I catch only bits of it: Something about how the lights keep flickering. Less annoying to keep them off. It’s better when it’s sunny, but the clouds are thick today. 

“We’re just scraping by without light” (I write this part down.)

The boy races to the opposite side of the gallery. The mom laughs like a bell and follows him. He’s free in his movements yet knows enough not to touch. 

The brightest part of the room is in the center under a paneled glass skylight that sits directly above a polyurethane copy of…