Surrounded by paintings we are, thick textured coats of red applied with some smeared black to form a craggy mountain, broad asteriskish pastel brush strokes describing a girl on a sunny day with a baby blue purse, white sine waves strewn across the edges of a rough blue ocean tide.
I, personally, am overcome.
The warm air caressing my skin lets the veins flow again after so many minutes in the rain-dotted chilly outdoors, and these are the most magnificent things my eyes have seen since I landed here, and I could look at them forever, and I wonder how I will ever move from these spots, in front of these paintings, how I will lead the rest of my life when I know there is such beauty hanging here, still, warm, still.
A knife through the feeling when I turn around and see an experimental canvas of splashed, dripping grey with masking tape strewn in random lines across it. Amidst such splendor, this thing is offensive. A little dripping black spot in the ecstasy.
Wait.
The masking tape is fake. It is painted on. The painting is a representation of experimental meaningless bullshit. It is masterful, ever so convincing, perfect.
The black spot is erased. Where it lay becomes the crux of the sphere of this gallery. The crux of the sphere of this afternoon. The crux of many, many spheres of days and months and years, even, depending on where you are standing.
(sunrise) Taiwan (sunset) 
I’m a friend of Pam’s and I am enjoying reading your blog.
Representation surpasses the real. Screw Plato. Hooray art.