The Ritual of the Absurd
The gallery was a void of white, a sterile cube in the heart of Manhattan where the air was filtered to a clinical purity and the silence was a commodity sold at a premium. Leo stood in the center of the room, wearing a suit of charcoal wool that felt like a shroud. Around him, the elite of the New York art world drifted like ghosts, their conversations a low hum of curated opinions and...
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