At half past five, the museum courtyard held a blue so deep it seemed poured rather than lit. The new wing asks a dangerous question: what if a gallery behaved less like a room and more like a remembered coastline?
The wall is only a courteous mirage
The answer begins with an arched threshold, a brass bell with no clapper, and a floor painted in the exact tone of late sand. By the third chamber, perspective has become less a rule than a rumor passed between frames.
Every serious door keeps a second landscape folded inside its hinge.