There he is. Again. Oh god, is he actually coming over here this time? I can hear the soft clack of his shoes as he walks over. He's leaning over my shoulder, he thinks I don’t notice. Didn’t your mother ever tell you all women have eyes in the backs of their heads? I can feel him watching me, watching my hand. I can hardly stand the scrutiny: the judgment has been passed, but the gavel slammed down without a sound. I feel a lush flush of red, tinting my cheeks and flooding my ears with heat. Please leave, please become distracted. I can feel his eyes tracing over the twisted and bent lines on the page. As a result, the drawing is worse. I've drawn too darkly and thrown off my shadows. It looks like a five year old drew it. Rethinking this statement, it could even be taken as an insult to 5 year olds, some of whom are quite talented. I apologize. Like a violent rape, I've left this once beautiful and pure white page defiled, bleeding black ink, with black scratches and bruises to match. Not to mention the injustice I've done to the museum, with its vaulting arches, its painted glass windows, its grand marble staircase. I should just leave. I feel like the infidel, the non-artistic intruder daring to sketch this hallowed hall. I hear someone speaking French quite loudly. It sounds like outrage. "How
dare she?” “How horrible for such a beautiful museum to be translated so poorly onto the page.” I slouch over my sketch book, hunching to hide my hideous scribbles. I stop to take another long look, trying so hard to analyze the shapes, the negative space, the angles, the shadows, all while using my hand to cover the majority of my blasphemous copy. If Holden Caulfield were here, he’d peg me as a phony in seconds, a damn phony. Impostor! I feel more eyes on me. Impostor, Impostor! They yell at me. Under this pressure I draw a very crooked line. Damn! It looks even worse, although I’d hardly have thought it possible a minute ago. Time to relocate.
I’ll hide among my brethren, my long lost cousins. But even in the mammal exhibit I feel watched. Hundreds of black beady eyes stare at me, some ferociously, some fearfully. I’m not here to hurt you! I just want to draw, undisturbed. I find an unsuspecting spot to stand in, hoping I’ll go unnoticed. I begin to draw again. But I can’t stop catching the gaze of the bear, the glare of the tiger, the blank stare of the otter. Odd, to think that in life none of these creatures would have ever come into contact with one another. Now they’re inmates, trapped forever in a prison of glass and plastic. And now instead of fear they begin invoke pity, and then sympathy. But who is really staring at whom? Are we judging them, or are we the ones on trial? Are we the exhibit, and they the spectators? Perhaps. Their eyes silently watch, seemingly blank and dumb, but in the black depths there is a hint of understanding. Is this how the antelope feel as they are appraised by the lion, hidden in the grass (or in this case hidden behind glass). What would this proud lion think of me? Would he see me as his enemy, a member of the species that shot him, skinned him, stuffed him, and now stares crassly at him, analyzing him as if he were just another specimen? Probably. And I wouldn’t blame him. Or the otter. Or the polar bear. Especially the polar bear. In 30 years, all polar bears left on earth will look just like her; frozen, motionless, statuesque, sentenced to remain in a single pose for the rest of her artificially sustained existence. What do they think of my drawing, I wonder. Probably what the peeping-tom and the French couple thought. Horrendous. Repulsive. Shameful even. Please let me apologize, I meant no harm. I never intended for my sketch to be offensive to your glass eyes. I’d also like to apologize on behalf of the human race. We’re too proud and selfish to leave you alone. We’re too curious and self-righteous to not stuff and study you. I’m sorry we killed you, and thousands of your kind. I know it’s wrong, but I represent the minority. Yes, it is we who are the dumb ones. You’re quite right, we are the creatures without souls. And now I face a scrutiny of a different kind. I am no longer on trial for aesthetics, for artistic merit and worth. I am now on trial as a being, a fellow earthling. This is a judgment of another kind, a kind I can’t bear. And the bear still stares. Like Cinderella at the ball, I’m suddenly thrust out of my day dream as the clock strikes. 5:00, time to go home. But instead of a glass slipper, all I have to remember this time is a poorly sketched picture. Oh well.
There he is. Again. Oh god, is he actually coming over here this time? I can hear the soft clack of his shoes as he walks over. He's leaning over my shoulder, he thinks I don’t notice. Didn’t your mother ever tell you all women have eyes in the backs of their heads? I can feel him watching me, watching my hand. I can hardly stand the scrutiny: the judgment has been passed, but the gavel slammed down without a sound. I feel a lush flush of red, tinting my cheeks and flooding my ears with heat. Please leave, please become distracted. I can feel his eyes tracing over the twisted and bent lines on the page. As a result, the drawing is worse. I've drawn too darkly and thrown off my shadows. It looks like a five year old drew it. Rethinking this statement, it could even be taken as an insult to 5 year olds, some of whom are quite talented. I apologize. Like a violent rape, I've left this once beautiful and pure white page defiled, bleeding black ink, with black scratches and bruises to match. Not to mention the injustice I've done to the museum, with its vaulting arches, its painted glass windows, its grand marble staircase. I should just leave. I feel like the infidel, the non-artistic intruder daring to sketch this hallowed hall. I hear someone speaking French quite loudly. It sounds like outrage. "How dare she?” “How horrible for such a beautiful museum to be translated so poorly onto the page.” I slouch over my sketch book, hunching to hide my hideous scribbles. I stop to take another long look, trying so hard to analyze the shapes, the negative space, the angles, the shadows, all while using my hand to cover the majority of my blasphemous copy. If Holden Caulfield were here, he’d peg me as a phony in seconds, a damn phony. Impostor! I feel more eyes on me. Impostor, Impostor! They yell at me. Under this pressure I draw a very crooked line. Damn! It looks even worse, although I’d hardly have thought it possible a minute ago. Time to relocate. 
I’ll hide among my brethren, my long lost cousins. But even in the mammal exhibit I feel watched. Hundreds of black beady eyes stare at me, some ferociously, some fearfully. I’m not here to hurt you! I just want to draw, undisturbed. I find an unsuspecting spot to stand in, hoping I’ll go unnoticed. I begin to draw again. But I can’t stop catching the gaze of the bear, the glare of the tiger, the blank stare of the otter. Odd, to think that in life none of these creatures would have ever come into contact with one another. Now they’re inmates, trapped forever in a prison of glass and plastic. And now instead of fear they begin invoke pity, and then sympathy. But who is really staring at whom? Are we judging them, or are we the ones on trial? Are we the exhibit, and they the spectators? Perhaps. Their eyes silently watch, seemingly blank and dumb, but in the black depths there is a hint of understanding. Is this how the antelope feel as they are appraised by the lion, hidden in the grass (or in this case hidden behind glass). What would this proud lion think of me? Would he see me as his enemy, a member of the species that shot him, skinned him, stuffed him, and now stares crassly at him, analyzing him as if he were just another specimen? Probably. And I wouldn’t blame him. Or the otter. Or the polar bear. Especially the polar bear. In 30 years, all polar bears left on earth will look just like her; frozen, motionless, statuesque, sentenced to remain in a single pose for the rest of her artificially sustained existence. What do they think of my drawing, I wonder. Probably what the peeping-tom and the French couple thought. Horrendous. Repulsive. Shameful even. Please let me apologize, I meant no harm. I never intended for my sketch to be offensive to your glass eyes. I’d also like to apologize on behalf of the human race. We’re too proud and selfish to leave you alone. We’re too curious and self-righteous to not stuff and study you. I’m sorry we killed you, and thousands of your kind. I know it’s wrong, but I represent the minority. Yes, it is we who are the dumb ones. You’re quite right, we are the creatures without souls. And now I face a scrutiny of a different kind. I am no longer on trial for aesthetics, for artistic merit and worth. I am now on trial as a being, a fellow earthling. This is a judgment of another kind, a kind I can’t bear. And the bear still stares. Like Cinderella at the ball, I’m suddenly thrust out of my day dream as the clock strikes. 5:00, time to go home. But instead of a glass slipper, all I have to remember this time is a poorly sketched picture. Oh well. 
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