Photographs from aimless wandering of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with two conscious avoidances: the 18th and 19th century European sculpture, as they belonged in the living room of an old lady who serves hard candy to visitors; and the Egyptian collection, victim of its own popularity, like skinny jeans.
I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my works. Ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.
The Melanesians must have been a trip to colonize. Buddha’s getting a bit played out, too.