Meditation on a Monk

Ride the escalator up to the first floor of the NGV and the tops of the water windows reveal themselves. Upon alighting, there is a decision to be made between watching a video playing continuously on a large screen in a space to the left, or proceeding straight ahead into a small anteroom leading to the Asian Art exhibition. Choose the latter option and remember that life is about experiencing the journey rather than simply being fixated upon arriving at the destination. Linger a while with the lacquered Buddhist monk who resides there, instead of racing on through to the main display space.

The soundtrack playing on the other side of the wall is reduced to a soothing sibilance. Together with the soft and continuous sound of the falling water it becomes an unfathomable and barely audible mantra. All conspires to invite you to pause and consider. The occasional measured footfalls of the attendants speak of sandals and cloisters; the hum of the air-conditioner is the hum of the Universe. On his black wooden plinth the gently golden monk is lost in his meditation: his hands in prayerful repose, his face enigmatic. The red of the wall behind him is no chaotic crimson. It is rich and profound.

By guest: Lex Tucker