The world is a dangerous place for ideas

Gabo Camnitzer and Miguel Camnitzer

Tidbits of rumor and legend tickled our imagination during the hour-long trip to the Old City. It wasn’t clear to any of us why the grownups had chosen to preserve the abandoned metropolis from the imperial era the way they did—part theme park, part ghost town—or why they encouraged generations of young people to journey there once a year for an afternoon of exploration. We gathered it had something to do with history not repeating itself; though, of course we were repeating history by going. 

If nothing else, we loved being on the hyper. As we raced up the coast, the glass dome of our cabin provided spectacular views of the ocean. The silent blur of the great outdoors filled us with anticipation. June had been named chaperone for the day by sortition. They were one of the youngest among us and had never guided an outing like this before, so while we gossiped and hopped between seats, they checked their screen, then rechecked and triple-checked, to confirm the day’s routes and timings. 

Despite June’s best efforts, the plan fell apart almost immediately. Our first stop, the huge artificial park (“man-made” as they used to say) at the city center, was closed for renovations. June scrambled to pull up alternatives on the screen. “Oh no, okay. I’ll need to find something close by.” They tapped the screen several times. “Oh yes, okay. Follow me.”

We came upon a monstrous concrete building that curved and bulged like a body part and required a crude iron exoskeleton to remain upright. As we approached the convex glass entryway, a tall figure blew past us and pressed the button to send the doors sliding into the building’s shell.

June had an anxious thought. “Excuse me! Do you know if this place costs any tokens?” Experiences in the old city traditionally required an antiquated form of data exchange, so it seemed best to check. 

“Of course not,” said the stranger. They sounded rather offended—whether by the question itself or the fact that June had dared to ask for a moment’s attention, we couldn’t be sure. They were much taller than the rest of us, and dressed in clothes so geometric and elegant we wondered if they were playing a part in some historical reenactment, of which the Old City had many. Their silver hair was trimmed very short and their face was cold and white as stone. They glared at us for a fraction longer than necessary before turning and marching into the building. We followed them into the lobby. The echoing chaos of our chatter and footsteps seemed unwelcome in such a serious place. A distant skylight cast a harsh square reflection against the obsidian floor. Relative to the extreme verticality of the architecture, we were a huddle of mice at the bottom of a well.

The main feature of the space was an enormous staircase fabricated from a crystalline material. It was many meters across at its base, and the steps narrowed dramatically as they climbed to the faraway ceiling. The forced perspective made us dizzy. As our acquaintance approached the first step, it became comically obvious that these stairs were meant for a giant; the lip of the first step was far above their head. We wondered how they could possibly intend to climb such a lavish and useless construction, but then they marched around to the side and pressed a button. Elevator doors opened with a ding and our new friend hurried inside.

A low white block jutted out of the wall opposite the stairs—some sort of abstract desk or reception area—from which a shadow rose to greet us. It was not actually a shadow, but a person wearing a solid black tunic and matching loose pants. Their pale face was framed on the left, right, and top with a chopped curtain of impossibly smooth, black hair. Their expression was so flat, we wondered if the whole thing was a program—some kind of looped projection we might have triggered upon entering.

“Greetings stakeholders,” said the shadow person. “Here we honor humanity’s rich heritage, while simultaneously celebrating radicality, transformation and rebirth.” The entire chamber began to vibrate with the thump-thump of an amplified heartbeat. “It is both a temple,” they said, lifting their arms to the heavens, “and a womb.” They wrapped their arms around themselves in a dramatic self-hug. At that exact moment, a gust of hot, odorous fog swept over us from some hidden vent. We coughed and wiped the moisture from our cheeks.

Once the heartbeat faded, the shadow person gestured to a fabric banner hanging from a beam, on which the phrase Temple/Womb had been embroidered in earthtones. “You just now experienced an affective somatic immersion conceived by our artist-in-residence. Welcome to the Museum Museum.”

It was a funny collection of syllables, vaguely feline sounding. Mewzee uhm Mewzee uhm. We mimicked it and giggled.

“I am your docent. Would you like a guided tour…Wonderful. Let’s proceed.”

“Human?” whispered Max.

“Must be a holo,” Ash whispered back. 

“The strands of hair though,” said Nan. “No way that’s fake.”

“But the speech delay is off,” Ash replied, “like we’re not even here.”

“I think they’re just a bit strange,” said Sam.

“Not used to visitors,” said Trin.

“Who’d want to come here anyway?” said Nan.

By now we were no longer whispering. The docent glared at us.

  “Does it cost any tokens?” June asked for the second time. People spoke our language in the Old City, but it was helpful to commit certain archaic phrases to memory.

“We used to require suggested donations, but times have changed.”

“Oh yes, okay. A tour would be nice then.”

The docent swept their hand in our direction. “The Museum Museum is for you, the people.” Their voice took command of the hall’s exaggerated acoustics, but their cadence was featureless; they might as well have been reciting a grocery list. “It is designed with you, the people, in mind. We have many halls, and you can choose where you go, and in what order…. Except for this first hall. Obviously you don’t have much choice on where you start—I’m told we’re working on that—but for now, this is the first hall, so it comes first. It is our Hall of Uncertainty. Any questions so far. Wonderful, moving on—”

“I do!” said Trin. “I have a question.”

The docent blinked and waited.

“Are there kittens in the meow-meow-zeem?”

“Trin!” said June. A couple of us laughed.

“The Museum Museum”—the docent corrected—“is a place to share culture.”

“Like a library!” exclaimed Ash, who adored any sort of library; not just the data archives, but also the tool and leisure libraries where we got our screens and bicycles and pretty much everything.

The docent pursed their lips. “You can’t borrow anything here. It’s a space filled with beautiful items.”

“Do you mean like a—what’s it called—shop?” Nan asked. They were already bored. Hardly anybody shopped anymore.

The docent shook their head, “You can’t buy any of them. It’s a collection of fun and exotic objects to get you thinking.”

“Like toys, then?” Sam asked, hopefully.

“No. You’re not allowed to touch anything. They are unique and delicate, and only for looking.”

Max was unimpressed. “So, they’re just decorations then.”

“Not at all like decorations. These objects have meaning.”

“Oh, like stories!” said Sam, face blooming into a smile. Sam liked stories just as much as toys.

The docent sighed. “Yes, like stories. Very important stories.”

June checked their screen. “How long is the tour, exactly?”

“It depends on which way you go.” The docent pointed to our left. “You have three doors to pick from.”

Each doorway led to its own narrow passage. We instinctively sorted into groups based on the prevailing best-friendships and grudges of the day, and chose our respective fates. But seconds later we were all somehow together again, having unexpectedly merged into a single room.

“They got us with that one!” said Trin, who appreciated a good prank.

The room was gray, grim and empty, encased in walls of unpolished granite. Everywhere we looked there were names of people cut into the stone. They varied tremendously in size, with some stretching across the entire width of the room and others so small we had to step in close to read them.

“Good, you chose to stick together,” the docent remarked as they emerged from the second of the three passages. “Welcome to the Hall of Important Helpers. The bigger the name, the more they helped.”

“Helped with what?” asked Max.

“It takes a tremendous amount of help to keep this place running. Go ahead now and explore.”

We hesitated—there wasn’t really anything to explore.

“Why are so many crossed out?” asked Ash. Nearly half the names, big and small, had been struck through with smears of red paint.

“We are turning this into our Hall of Accountability,” replied the docent. “Whenever someone brings it to our attention that a helper did something…unfortunate, we have our artist-in-residence paint over their name.”

“But I can still see them,” said Sam. The names remained perfectly legible; the paint did little to conceal the chiseled lettering.

“Well then, don’t look.”

We exchanged a few glances and wordlessly concluded we were done with this room. An opening to the left was labeled “Hall of the Sublime,” which could have been tempting except for the aggressively bright light that radiated from the doorway and burned our retinas. We decided to go right.

The next room was much darker. Miniature spotlights illuminated pedestals encased in glass. Each displayed a glittering object cushioned by black velvet. The objects were of various types and styles, but they all appeared to be impressively ancient and precious.

“Welcome to the Hall of Borrowed Treasure,” said the docent. “These are priceless artifacts from around the world.”

Ash began reading one of the plaques aloud. “A sacred headdress crafted from gold and rubies…”

Max pointed at a digital display beneath a porcelain vase. It showed a large number with many zeroes. “Is this how much it costs? I thought you said this stuff was priceless.”

“Instead of returning the items to their places of origin, we estimated the market value and generously deducted it from each nation’s debt.”

Most of those words were strange and old-sounding, but we knew generosity was a good thing. “That’s nice of you,” said Sam.

The docent seemed impervious to Sam’s good nature. “Do any of you need to use the toilet?”

A few of us nodded. We were directed to a white tiled corridor labeled “Hall of Decolonization.” None of us asked about the name as we hurried in to pee, but something strange happened on the way back out; as each of us exited the restroom, a dark glass panel lit up with a percentage: 37%, 56%, 12% and so on.

“What are those numbers about?” asked Max.

“That is your settler percentage,” explained the docent. “As you do your business, the plumbing samples your DNA and examines your genealogy to determine your individual level of historical complicity in genocide.”

Being a big fan of history, Ash felt compelled to speak up. “But how does that help decolonize anything?”

“We suggest you make a donation to charity commensurate with your guilt score.”

“Oh no,” June said. They consulted their screen to check the group’s travel allowance. “How much do we owe?”

“Whatever amount makes you feel better,” said the docent.

June pulled up our agenda and added “guilt score donation?” to the list of topics for our evening discussion circle.

We headed to the adjacent room. Dozens of square canvases were displayed all around us, each painted a different, solid color.

“This is the Hall of Genius,” said the docent. “People think these colors have always existed in nature, but actually they needed to be invented one at a time by a long line of brilliant men. Here we celebrate their contributions. You can go in order, or hop around if you wish.”

“Violet is nice,” said Sam. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

Max studied a lemon-colored square. “But how could you possibly know who invented yellow?”

“It turns out we can’t,” said the docent. “We’re recontextualizing the exhibit.”

Sam didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded bad. “You’re not going to throw away the rainbow, right?”

“Of course not. It’s becoming the focal point for our new Hall of Pride.”

“Oh good!”

Ash peeked into a dusty nook around the corner. “And what’s this room for?” 

“Oh, that’s our Hall of Education,” said the docent.

“But it’s just an old computer sitting in there.”

“There’s a thorough slideshow on it about the Museum’s original design and construction.”

Nan yawned. “I’m hungry.”

“Okay, yes,” said June. “Maybe we should eat something,” 

“We have food,” said the docent, leading us out of the Hall of Pride. “It’s just past the Hall of Exquisite Trauma.”

When we stumbled out of the next gallery, Sam was trembling. Trin tugged on the docent’s sleeve. “Were those real children crying?”

“The real question here,” the docent said, obviously accustomed—and unmoved—by this distress, “is does it matter?”

We all agreed that it did, but none of us pressed the issue; we were distracted by the arrangement of the latest room. Folding tables crammed the space, loaded with crates of produce and packages of dry goods. “This isn’t really a cafeteria,” Max observed.

“Take as much as you can carry,” the docent replied, hoisting up a forty-pound sack of rice to demonstrate.

Nan tore open an enormous bag of tortilla chips and started crunching. 

“You don’t have a restaurant?” June asked.

“If you were hoping to score a table at Soup Kitchen, you need to book six months ahead,” said the docent. “This here is the Hall of Altruism, where we provide groceries for at-risk communities.” 

We gathered around Nan to share the tortilla chips. Ash was about to grab a handful—“Wait, at risk for what?”

“Right,” said Max. “If they run out of groceries, wouldn’t they just go to the public depot?”

“Or ask for an extra batch from the daily distro?” Nan added.

“And why don’t they have enough stuff to begin with—”

“Plus, why bring the food here first—”

“I don’t get it—”

“Not very efficient—”

“Does this really fix the problem?”

Our objections kept coming until the docent interrupted. “The important thing is that our institution prioritizes giving back to the community.”

There was movement above us. A raised platform ran all the way around the room, protected by a glass barrier. Dark figures began to appear from a second-story doorway. With the harsh track lights blinding our eyes, we couldn’t make out their features.

“Those people are waving at us,” said Ash.

Trin poked a bag of onions. “Maybe they provided the food?”

“That’s nice of them,” Sam said, waving back. 

“Make sure to smile for the cameras,” said the docent.

We devoured the rest of the tortilla chips until the salt parched our mouths and corn grit coated our throats. There was no water or juice on offer, so June opened a carton of room-temperature vegetable broth and passed it around for us to take sips. They pulled out the screen again. “Oh no, okay. When did you say the tour would be over?” 

“As soon as you exit through the Hall of Cultural Exchange.”

June was about to ask for clarification when Max called from the next room, “Why is it all dug up in here?”

“I want to see!” said Trin.

We stepped into a dirt pit. The flooring had been torn away, exposing raw earth. Industrial machinery sat idle, having already scooped away much of the ground beneath the building.

“Welcome to the Hall of Acknowledgements,” said the docent.

Ash spotted giant fabric sacks near some shovels at the bottom of the pit; they were partially filled with rocks and soil. “Where are you taking all the dirt?”

“It has come to our attention that it doesn’t belong to us,” said the docent. “We’re giving it back.”

“That’s good of you,” said Sam.

“What about the building?” Nan asked.

The docent seemed to think this was an odd question. “The building is ours, of course.”

“But won’t it fall down?” asked Trin.

The docent said nothing.

June looked around, nervously. “This doesn’t seem safe.”

“I say we go this way,” said Max, pointing right.

“Wonderful,” said the docent, as if this were the exact opposite of wonderful. “To the Hall of Unity.”

The room had screens mounted on each of the walls, and on those screens children were gazing back at us via video. Trin performed a little dance in front of a monitor. A perplexed child waved back.

“At this very moment, you are connected to our sister institutions across the globe,” announced the docent. “You can speak to your peers, and our technology will instantly translate what you say into their native language. For example, try saying ‘I love you.’”

“I love you,” Sam said shyly to a kid about the same age, who wore a colorful school uniform and lived somewhere on the other side of the planet. “Sarang-hae!” said the computer. The student smiled at this and said something back, but the sound on the monitor was muted. A speaker built into the wall said, “I love you!” in a robotic voice. Sam beamed. “That’s nice.”

Ash went up to another screen and did the same. “I love you!” 

“Je t'aime!” said the voice. The young person on the other end laughed silently and mouthed something. “I love you!” said the wall speaker.

Trin wanted to have a little fun. “Tell me your favorite cuss word!”

The translator paused for a fraction of a second. “¡Te amo!” it said.

Trin’s eyebrows scrunched. “Isn’t that just I love you in Spanish?” 

The human on Trin’s screen replied with several sentences, but a moment later all that came out of the speaker was another robotic “I love you!”

Trin pouted. “I think mine’s broken.”

“Are you as bored as we are?” Nan asked the person on the nearest screen. “Uhibbuk!” said the voice on the other end.

“Wait a minute,” said Max, stepping next to Ash. “Where do you live?” 

“Je t'aime!” said the computer.

The student speaking French seemed to notice something off and gave a long response. “I love you!” said the translator.

Max gave June a skeptical look, but they were too busy checking the itinerary again to notice. “Do you have a room with the ground scooped away?” Max interrogated the screen. “Or a cafeteria with only groceries in it, or a gallery of stuff stolen from other places?”

“Je t'aime! Je t'aime!” said the computer.

Sam’s counterpart looked distraught. Their lips moved rapidly and their fist banged on the screen, but all that came out of the speaker was “I love you! I love you! I love you!” 

Sam backed away. “I don’t like this anymore.”

“What sort of trick are you playing on us?” asked Max. The question was meant for the docent, but the nearby screen said “Je t'aime!” anyway.

The docent seemed unfazed by the incessant translations ricocheting around the room. “Love is a radical act,” they said.

  Nan frowned. “What’s radical about forcing us to say ‘I love you’ to each other?”

“Love is the practice of freedom—”

“What?” Max interrupted. “How is this freedom?”

“—and freedom takes practice.”

“I’m over this,” said Nan. “It’s messed up.”

“Agreed,” said Ash.

“Oh no,” June said, putting away their screen. “Okay, let’s keep going.”

“This way,” said Max. We rushed into another room and the docent closed the door behind us. 

“Welcome to the Hall of Perseverance.”

On a table in the center of the space, a metallic white sphere blinked with green lights. A rectangular plastic device with a narrow slot sat next to it. We approached the technology with caution.

“This one is participatory as well,” the docent explained. “We need a volunteer.”

Ash had a fondness for new gadgets and tentatively raised a hand.

“Sit on the stool there and tell the sphere your most heart-wrenching story.”

Ash gave them a puzzled look. “Should I make something up?”

“Please, no. We want something that really happened to you—the hardest challenge you ever had to overcome.”

Ash swallowed. “Right now, in front of everybody?”

“Our AI art generator will render your story into an original painting.”

Ash didn’t want to act scared in front of the rest of us. They leaned into the sphere and whispered for a long time. The gadget’s lights throbbed. The slotted rectangle clicked and whirred, then spat out a sheet of paper. Ash snatched it away as if the printer might bite their hand. When they looked at the image, the blood drained from their face.

“Make room for the next person,” said the docent. “Take your artwork and stand by the wall.” Ash did as instructed.

Trin went next and shared an absurd and spirited story about a meteor crash and a zombie plague. The docent paused, as if weighing the value of Trin’s contribution. “Remember, honesty makes the best art,” they said. Trin joined Ash against the wall and proudly displayed their portrait of Armageddon to the rest of us.

Max investigated the equipment from various angles before sitting on the stool. They proceeded to share a truncated, stone-faced account of how they were frequently ill when they were little, and had trouble staying nourished. 

“The more detail you provide, the better the work will be,” advised the docent, but Max had nothing more to say.

When it was Nan’s turn, they spoke about dark moods and ineffective medicines. The docent nodded. This must have been a good answer.

Soon everyone had gone but Sam. Sam didn’t want to go—not one bit—but also didn’t want to feel left out. They fidgeted on the stool for a while. “I guess I’ll share about one of my guardians?” The docent gave no reaction. June nodded encouragement. 

Sam leaned into the sphere and spoke softly. “They could be kind of mean to us—I think they’d had a rough life. They shouted a lot when they drank too much. It was scary. This one time they threw a bottle—it didn’t hit me or anything—but there was broken glass everywhere, and they made me clean it up with just my hands, and it cut me all over, and…. Well, there was some other stuff that happened later on too, and then one day they went off somewhere and didn’t come back.” The sphere blinked. The printer hummed. Out came the art. Sam hunched over and quickly dried the wetness from their cheeks with a sleeve, hoping we wouldn’t notice.

Once we were all lined up against the wall with our paintings, the docent said solemnly, “The board of trustees has a message for you.”

A speaker in a high corner squeaked and hissed, and out came a voice: “What you have so bravely shared with us today… It makes us feel deeply and think deeply about the injustices of our world. We are sorry for all you have endured, and we admire your resilience.” The speaker crackled for a few seconds, and then: “Remember, from great pain comes great beauty!”

We looked at the speaker, then at each other.

The docent stepped forward. “Now you have the honor of joining our collection. Pin your paintings to the walls of this gallery so they may inspire future generations.”

“But I don’t like mine,” said Ash.

“Me neither,” said Nan.

Sam was crying again.

“Enough with the tour,” Max said. “Show us the way out.”

The docent paused for an awkward moment, their attention pulled elsewhere. “That would defeat the purpose.” Pause. “We value self-directed learning.” Pause. “Now please, hang your work on the wall.”

Max gave the docent a hideous look, and with exaggerated fervor, tore their paper to shreds. The pieces drifted to the floor.

“Oh no” said June. “Okay, I think we’re all getting a little cranky. Maybe some fresh air would help.”

The docent didn’t seem at all troubled by Max’s outburst. They retrieved a small controller from their pocket and pushed a button. A square section of floor rose to form a pedestal, lifting the paper fragments along with it. Once it reached chest-level, glass panels slid up and over to enclose the remains of the artwork in a display case. A laminated placard affixed to the podium contained several paragraphs of fine print. The current date and time was printed in bold at the top.

“But I destroyed it!” Max said, slapping at the glass. “You’re going to keep it anyway?”

“We commemorate all significant acts of dissent,” said the docent.

“This place is some kind of test, or experiment, or something sick like that!” Max shouted. “Where are these board of trustees people? I have a few things I’d like to say to them.”

Pause. “Of course,” the docent said. “We value feedback from our artists.” Pause. “Follow me.” They whisked us through the next hall. “The Hall of Opportunity,” they said, without stopping. The walls were a messy collage of masking tape, bent nails and plastic sheets splattered with white paint.
Regardless of the rush, the docent seemed obligated to deliver their lines. “Here we invite our janitors, art handlers and maintenance crew to create works drawn from their lived experience.” 

Ash slowed down to look at a mop and bucket of murky water posed in the center of the space. “What about this one?” 

“It was a soap bubble sculpture,” said the docent, gesturing for them to hurry. “An ephemeral work by our cleaning person.”

Trin laughed and pointed behind us. White cotton gloves were haphazardly stapled everywhere, each with only their middle-finger extended. A collage of post-it notes spelled out CÓMETE A LOS RICOS.

The next space was a room within a room. The outer chamber served as a viewing area. The inner room was essentially a large glass box furnished with folding tables and chairs, a marker board, water cooler and other items one might find in an old-fashioned breakroom. Cardstock, wooden dowels, markers and other craft supplies cluttered the space. On the door, a sign read: Hall of Un/Rest.

“Is this where they made the stuff for the last room?” Sam asked, peering through the glass. Protest signs leaned against a chair. “¡SÍ SE PUEDE!” and “I HAVE A DREAM!” were printed on glossy foamcore. A dart board hung on the wall, with a photograph of a vaguely familiar face pinned to the center of it.

The docent raced through their script while ushering us towards the far door. “Sometimes workers get agitated and need to vent. This is a dedicated space for them to protest. All materials needed for a picket line have been provided. The walls are one-way mirrors so the board can observe and better understand the needs of the staff. When not in use, we allow visitors to put on overalls and play the part of disgruntled laborers. Maybe later you can go on a pretend strike.”

The next room we entered was the Hall of Empathy. Two long rows of tents had been erected, with a narrow path in between. All the materials were weathered and patched. Several had soiled tarps draped over them. Next to each was a rusty cart loaded with bulging black plastic bags. At the center of the space, a fountain designed like an antique yellow fire hydrant flooded a gutter. An animatronic dog chewed on a plastic rat and made recorded growling noises on a loop.

“The Museum Museum is committed to preserving endangered cultures,” said the docent as we hurried by.

“Are people living here?” Sam asked.

“Not full time,” said the docent. “But for a fee, guests can spend the night experiencing what it was like to be homeless in the Imperial era.”

Max had gotten very quiet during this sped-up portion of the tour. They stared at their feet and muttered, and only looked up when we finally came to a stop in front of a heavy metal door.

“Here we are—the Hall of Critique.” The docent nudged Max through the door, but signaled for the rest of us to stop. A podium and microphone were set up in the middle of the cramped room. The walls were padded with foam. The docent paused again. They were nodding along to something we couldn’t hear. “We take the act of listening very seriously.” Pause. “All of your thoughts will be recorded so we can properly document and respond to your feedback.” As Max adjusted the microphone, the docent closed the door. Once it clicked shut, we could hear nothing from the other side.

This troubled June. “How long will they be in there?”

Pause. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for us to rush it.”

“Oh sure, okay. But maybe we should head outside then. Max can meet us when they’re done. Where did you say we’d find the Hall of Cultural Exchange?”

“Just past the final door.”

“Okay, but where is that?” June demanded. They were not accustomed to getting frustrated with grown-ups, and did not enjoy the feeling.

Pause. “What is art-making, if not imagining new doors?” Pause. “Or rather, reimagining the entire concept of doors?”

Nan groaned. “Why can’t you just show us the way out?”

“How can one know the ending of their own story?”

“You obviously know how to leave!” Nan snapped. “You go home at the end of the day, don’t you?”

Pause. “What does home mean to you?”

“Whatever the complete opposite of this is,” said Trin.

Pause. “What if there were no opposites? Only in-betweens?”

“Oh no,” said June, taking a deep breath. “You need to tell us how to get out of here. Now.”

“Sorry, we…” The docent’s eyes fixed on something invisible to us, something beyond the confines of the room. “Art is about asking, not telling.”

Ash had a hunch and stepped in close to study the docent’s face. Their eyes were opaque and lightless. “You’re artificial, aren’t you?”

The docent stiffened. Their face went limp.

Trin sneered. “They’re a bot?”

Someone called to us from the adjacent hall. “The better question is…” We turned towards the voice. Our strange acquaintance from the morning sauntered into the room. “...does it matter?” 

“No. It doesn’t,” Nan said, coolly. “Because you’re going to take us to the exit.”

“Who are you? asked June.

“I am the director of the Museum Museum. I don’t typically involve myself in tours, but much of our staff is on leave at the moment, and I’m stuck putting out all the fires.” They smiled, which stretched their mouth in such a hungry manner we instinctively looked away. In one deft gesture, they reached into the back of the robot’s hair and turned a dial until it clicked. The docent abruptly powered down—eyes closed, shoulders slumped. “Apologies. Our guidance system is meant to provide a seamless human experience.”

“Remember the dart board?” Trin asked, turning to the rest of us. “It was their face on it!”

“Your staff must not like you very much,” said Nan.

The director laughed. “I gave them that dart board.”

“Max was right,” said Ash. “This is a test.”

“Max!” Sam shouted. They wiggled the handle and pounded the door with their tiny fists. “Max, come out here! We need you!”

“The recording booth is perfectly soundproof,” said the director.

“But why is it locked?” asked June.

“To keep the process objective, of course. To prevent outside influence.”

“Max, can you hear me?” shrieked Sam. “Please!”

Trin joined in. “Max!” They kicked the door, then kicked it harder.

“It can only be opened from the inside,” said the director. “Once your friend is ready to take part in a constructive solution, they are free to leave.”

“That’s it, I’ve had it!” Nan said. “I’m going to find help.” They fled into the next room.

“A free thinker,” said the director.

Trin gave the door another kick. “What’s going on in there?”

“We’re listening. Every criticism we receive will be addressed through the expansion of the museum.”

None of us liked the sound of that. “What do you mean?” asked Ash.

“Let’s engage in dialogue. Tell me something problematic about our institution.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Ash said. “I don’t think this place should exist.”

The director nodded thoughtfully. “Then you’ll be pleased to learn about our upcoming show entitled, “This Place Should Not Exist.” It’s like the rest of our exhibits, but more subversive.” They turned to Trin. “And what changes would you like to see?”

“I’d like to see us change from being here, to not being here.”

“Fantastic! In the room to your left, you’ll find a new fully sensory metaverse where you can experience what it’s like in any of our sister institutions around the world.”

Trin turned their back to the director; it was useless to keep engaging. “Should we split up?”

“We might lose each other,” said June.

“It would increase our chances of finding a way out,” said Ash.

Sam whimpered. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

“No one’s going to leave you, buddy,” said Trin.

“We need to stick together,” said June.

“Okay, let’s just get out of here!” said Ash.

“I invite you to explore all our new halls,” the director said, a little too enthusiastically. “The more input you give, the more we grow.”

June took the lead and pulled us away. We ran as fast as we could, though Sam’s little legs could barely keep up. Soon enough we were entering rooms we’d already seen, but somehow they weren’t in the same order as before. When we burst into the Hall of Accountability and came upon the three doors leading to the lobby, we thought we must nearly be free. We stuck together and chose the middle passage, but it didn’t bring us back to the familiar crystal staircase or the jet black floor of the Hall of Uncertainty. Instead, we found ourselves on a raised walkway.

“Oh no,” said June.

“How did we end up in the cafeteria?” Ash asked.

Speakers on the wall blared the sounds of voices— 

“Thank you so much!”

“We are so grateful!”

¡Muchas gracias!

Below us another group of young museum-goers perused the items on the tables.

“Stop!” Sam screamed. “You have to leave!” They pulled on Ash’s arm. “Tell them they have to leave!”

“Hey down there!” Ash banged against the glass. “Hey!” 

No one looked up; they couldn’t hear us.

“Come on!” Ash yelled through the noise of recorded thank you’s. “Maybe we can find stairs.” 

We ran along the walkway until we reached an unlocked door at the opposite end of the hall. The adjoining room had no other doorways or features. It was stark white and completely empty, except for a large basket of colored chalk on the floor and— 

“Nan!” cried June.

Our friend sat cross-legged by the chalk with their head in their hands. They jumped to their feet at the sight of us and yelled, “the door!”

We were too late; it swung shut behind us. It was the same color as the wall—in fact, it was the wall. Trin ran back and felt all over the surface with their hands, but there wasn’t even a visible seam between the edges of the door and the doorframe anymore.

“Oh no, okay,” said June. They pulled out their screen but got no signal. “I…I don’t know what to do.” 

Ash joined Nan by the basket. “What’s the chalk for?”

“No clue,” said Nan, “but the sign above the door outside said “Hall of Radical Thinking.”

Sam’s eyes grew painfully wide. “Are we stuck here?”

“It’s going to be alright Sam,” said Ash. “Here, take some chalk. Maybe we’re supposed to draw on the walls or something.” Sam gently scooped up a pink cylinder as if it were an injured animal.

Trin put an arm around them. “Here, I’ll draw with you.” Together they went over to the wall.

“Oh, I get it,” said Ash. “The Hall of Radical Thinking. They want us to think outside of the box!”

Nan rolled their eyes. “That’s a bit literal, don’t you think?”

Sam used the pink chalk to draw a pair of long wobbly lines down to the floor. “I’m going to make a door so we can leave.”

“I’ll try one over here,” said Trin. “Mine’s going to be a space hatch.”

Nan picked up some blue chalk. “This is silly.”

“Sure, okay,” said June. “but maybe it’s worth a shot.”

The rest of us kneeled at the basket to choose our colors.

Ash sketched a rectangle on the wall and filled it in with black chalk, as solid as possible. “Mine’s just an opening, no door at all.”

Nan drew a stone arch and a set of double doors textured like wood. The detail was impressive.

“You’ve got skills!” said Trin, whose space hatch was just a simple circle in green and a horizontal slash indicating a lever.

June faced a section of blank wall and pondered quietly. Soon the rest of us were done with our doors. We poked at the sheetrock, expecting magical portals to suddenly open.

“I’m drawing one on the ground,” said Sam. “Maybe that’ll work.”

“Oh no,” said June. “Okay, I don’t think this is right.”

“What else could they want us to do?” asked Ash.

“Why are we all drawing our own doors?” asked June. “Maybe if we worked on one together, and made it really, really good…”

We all agreed that June must be right. Given that Nan was such an impressive drawer, we let them guide us. They weren’t too controlling about it though, and we each had freedom to do our own things and not be perfect. By utilizing all our colors, the image in front of us became vibrant, playful, and chaotic. Nan went in with gray chalk and added some shadows and depth here and there. We worked and worked, letting the excitement of our creation distract us from the fear. Eventually Nan raised and lowered an arm like an orchestra conductor, and we all took a moment to appreciate the fact that we were done. It was beautiful and enormous, decorated around the edges with scribbled geometric patterns and Sam’s pink bubble flowers. We marveled at what we had made and smiled at each other. And waited.

And waited.

“We’re done!” Nan called out, assuming someone was listening. Nothing happened.

“Oh no,” June said. “I thought we’d figured it out.”

Sam’s face darkened. Ash put an arm around them. “Don’t cry, buddy. It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m not going to cry!” said Sam, fiercely. “I just don’t want to play anymore.”

“Me neither,” said Trin.

“The docent robot person said we needed to imagine a door, and we did,” Sam said. “It’s not fair.”

“Wait, that’s right!” June exclaimed. We all looked at June.

“Sam, that is what the docent said. They said we needed to reimagine the concept of a door.”

Sam looked confused.

“Maybe we don’t need to draw a way out. Maybe we need to imagine one.”

Nan pointed at the wall. “We had to imagine this one in order to draw it, didn’t we?”

“It’s still just a door though,” said Ash, who was starting to catch on.

“Okay, right,” said June. “Sure, we drew a normal door, but we didn’t reimagine the concept of a door.”

We all got quiet, thinking back to what words the docent had used.

“So if I just shut my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else…” Sam’s eyes closed for a moment—all of a sudden there was no Sam. 

“Sam!” June called.

“Oh no!” Ash yelled. “Where did they go? Sam?”

Sam had vanished into thin air.

Trin laughed. “It worked! I want to try—” They closed their eyes and—poof!—they were gone.

“How is this even possible?” Nan asked. “Sam? Trin? Can you hear me?”

“I have no idea,” said June. “But wherever they are, I need to go after them.

“We all do,” said Ash.

“Together,” said Nan.

“Together,” we all said. 

“Okay, on the count of three everyone close their eyes and imagine we’re outside again,” said June. “One…Two…Three…”

We all shut our eyes. There was darkness. It felt like an eternity, but then a voice said, “Open your eyes.”

The room was the same. White walls. Chalk drawings of doors every which way. But there were no other people around; the rest of the group had disappeared.

The only one left was me.

“What happened to my friends?” I asked.

“None of them passed the test.”

The voice was coming from behind me, so I turned around. The director stood by an open doorway holding a garment bag.

“Where did they go?”

“They exited through the Hall of Cultural Exchange. You, however…” the director looked pleased as they approached me, “...you stayed.”

“I tried to imagine a way out!”

“No. You didn’t.”

“But I…” I didn’t want to admit it, but the director was right. When I’d closed my eyes, I couldn’t think of another place to be. After all, anything I visualized could exist within these walls. The building would expand until all my thoughts were at home.

“You are the only one who understands,” the director said. They unzipped the bag to reveal a black tunic and pants. “You get what we’re about.”

“I do?” I asked. But I already knew that I did. The museum was an animal—a rare and gorgeous beast—always eating, changing, growing. Willful to be sure, but trainable. 

“Everyone else thinks they can dream their way out of how things are, and how they must be,” the director said, smirking. “But they still end up in the gift shop trading their tokens for souvenirs.”

“You mean the Hall of Cultural Exchange?”

“It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

I nodded. “What about the one you took…what’s their name…” My memories were jumbled, fuzzy, like I was waking up from a dream. “The one in the Hall of Critique?”

“We’re going to name a wing in their honor.”

“That’s nice.” I said, which was something a friend of mine used to say.

“Try it on.” The director dangled the crisp new uniform near my face.

“I’m going to be the next docent?”

“You’d be doing me a favor. My last one kept glitching, and it would be nice to finally have another human around here.”

I felt a joyous rush. The director saw me as something special, something of value. The museum was indeed a gorgeous beast, and I would feed it, care for it, guide it towards justice. I stood up, a bit dazed, not quite convinced this was actually real. The doorway behind the director led out to the raised platform from which I’d come. Whatever mechanism had turned it into a solid wall was invisible now. Maybe I’d imagined it. The director removed the tunic from the hanger and gave it to me. I couldn’t resist; I pulled it over my head. It was a good fit. 

“The world is a dangerous place for ideas,” they said, handing me the pants. “That’s why we need a space to keep them safe.”

End.