It is  highly curious. I had not been aware of it at all, this exhibition, yet I find myself with others in a shuffling queue. If truth be told, I had no idea there was even a museum or a gallery, if that's where we are. Certainty is impossible in the murkiness of what I presume to be the building's  long, narrow entryway. Adding to my disorientation, I cannot tell you whether it is day or night nor even the season, though I suspect summer given the clamminess of the air. That oppressiveness combined with such proximity to total strangers leaves me feeling claustrophobic, my breathing constricted. There is no communication among us, no sound at all save the scuff of shoes along the floor. And though no one has spoken aloud, yet I am aware of an inner voice instructing me to keep moving.

How long had I been there? I have no idea.  You must understand that I hadn't even any recollection of how I had arrived in the first place. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but I assure you I'm being truthful. What motivation would I have to lie?
 
As the line continues its advance, I sense the darkness around becoming less pronounced, rather like  twilight. At length, I perceive that we are nearing a very bright source of illumination which I surmise must be from the gallery itself.
 
Our pace is slow - agonizing to my mind - and it takes what seems to be many minutes more  to reach the entrance. There, we are met by a tall, imposingly built figure clad in a uniform and cap, dove-gray in color, of the sort you would expect the doorman of a fine hotel to be wearing. Now, my assumption is that it is a man, based on the physique; in truth I cannot say more because of this very odd and disquieting fact: he has no face. The contours of a face, yes, but devoid of discernible features. It is as if he is wearing a tight-fitting mask, though upon closer scrutiny I can see that it isn't a mask at all but what I would have to say passed for skin, though of a doughy, wan pallor. I had never encountered the like before and am made exceedingly uneasy by it. I seek to quell my disquiet by telling myself that his startling appearance must be artifice, a way to dramatize the exhibition itself, though I confess that deep within I am unconvinced.

He utters not a word, if he possesses the capacity to speak at all. As each person in the line draws abreast of him, he motions for them to pause before raising his right arm and extending a white-gloved open palm, fingers held together and slightly cupped, as a gesture of entry. In each case, the movements are precisely repeated, all very robotic.
 
At last, it is my turn at the front of the line. As I had seen those ahead of me do, I stop, wait for the appropriate signal and then proceed. When  I step forward, I encounter some type of sheer barrier - a scrim might be the best way to describe it. I cannot see it, only feel it for the merest second, and when I pass through, it is clear that I have entered the gallery proper.
 
As with the whole of this experience, the room is unique. You may say with some justification that this is just another manifestation of my state of mind. But while I grant my perplexity, I can say with surety that I would have remembered such singular surroundings had I been presented with them before.

What first strikes me is the arresting quality of the illumination. The whole of the room - floor, walls, ceiling - radiates a cool white glow, very much akin to a full moon's light on a frigid winter night. And its emanation, from everywhere at once, has a most disorienting effect, making it impossible to discern where the planes of the room intersect. It takes a long moment to get my bearings as I step tentatively forward, aided principally by taking note of the juxtaposition of the images on either side of me.

And there is the voice again - flat, affectless - urging me gently but insistently to keep moving. This I do, drawn by my curiosity about the artwork. A quick sweep of the eyes reveals ten or a dozen frameless canvas panels evenly spaced and of uniform size - by my estimate 91 x 122 centimeters. Moreover, all appear to be rendered in matte black.
 
I am not alone in the room; there are several others, and I can see that they are moving about randomly. I should note here that there is a distinct hushed quality, with no conversation, only the sound of their muffled footfalls.

Where do I start? Does it matter? For no particular reason, I choose to step to my left.
 
The first painting before me is unremarkable. As I glance from it to its companions, I can see that there is nothing which distinguishes it from the rest. While  it bears no image whatsoever, I am  struck by its surface, for I can clearly see the warp and woof of the canvas support but can find upon it no mark of a brush. Affixed to the wall at the bottom right of the painting is a small white card where I would have expected to see the title and other information about the piece. It is  blank. Taking a step back, I study the painting for a long moment, but finding nothing within it to compel my attention further, I move on.
 
At the second painting, in every respect identical to the first, I become conscious of a woman who has moved behind me and to my right. I turn, noting her deep interest in the piece, so I resume examining it, sensing that some aspect of the artist's intention that she discerns has eluded me. But, though I do my best to fully immerse myself, I am no more enlightened. At this point, I think to engage the woman and elicit her impressions. I turn toward her again:
 
"What do you make of it?"
 
At this, she breaks away from her keen study of the canvas and looks at me. Yet, she makes not the slightest effort to respond to my query, only stares blankly. I turn back toward the painting and, at length, feel her move away.

It is  but one more unsettling moment for which I can find no ready explanation. Moreover, I am convinced that any attempt to interact with the others in the gallery would prove equally fruitless.

So, with a feeling of intense isolation, I meander from painting to painting, each the twin of the one before it, growing more annoyed with the whole experience. This is what I had come to see? - and through no volition of my own, mind you.
 
I begin to second-guess myself. Should I revisit each of the pieces? Perhaps I have missed something important through lack of attentiveness or a failure of perception.
 
But I quickly decide such a course would be futile. I would have to content myself with what I have seen. And by that point, my frustration is muted by the knowledge that I am nearing the end of the exhibit, impelled by the inner voice toward the doorway at the far end of the room that I take to be