The Art of Accidental Destruction

Barnaby Crumble, a man whose grace was less balletic and more bowling ball, found himself at the opening of the 'Existential Voids' exhibition. His girlfriend, Penelope, a devotee of all things abstract, had practically dragged him there. 'It's about the space, Barnaby,' she'd whispered, reverently, as they approached a single, unassuming plinth. Barnaby, however, was more focused on the floor, which seemed to possess an unnatural magnetic pull for his feet. He admired the plinth, really, truly tried to appreciate its plinth-ness. He took a step back, then another, contemplating the sheer emptiness it *didn't* hold. Unfortunately, his contemplation was cut short by the sudden realization that 'space' also applied *behind* him. His heel caught on the very edge of an invisible, low-slung platform that, in a less minimalist setting, might have been a step. His arms windmilled, a futile attempt to regain equilibrium. His right hand, flailing wildly, smacked directly into a 'sculpture' – a single, meticulously balanced pebble on a needle-thin stand. The pebble wobbled, then plummeted. Barnaby, now fully airborne for a brief, glorious second, came down with a thud that resonated through the pristine gallery. His flailing left arm, in its final desperate arc, connected perfectly with a display table holding a pyramid of tiny, artisanal macarons. They scattered like pastel confetti. The pebble, meanwhile, having bounced off Barnaby's shoe, ricocheted into a large, reflective piece of 'conceptual silence' – which promptly vibrated off its moorings and leaned precariously. Penelope sighed, a sound that could curdle milk. 'Barnaby,' she said, surveying the macaron massacre and the quivering 'silence', 'It's about the space, not the *displacement*.' Barnaby, now tangled in his own coat and surrounded by shattered artistic intention, just offered a sheepish grin. 'At least I filled the void?'