I enter the Gallery, I see a red apple on the floor. I remember John Lennon biting into a similar one, which was an artistic object at the exhibition of his future wife, Yoko Ono. Remembering this story, I think that the apple on the floor can only be a work of art and I do not dare to question it, and, much less, to change its place.

A girl piles up red apples – just the same as the ones that I found – and creates a mountain with them. Is she the artist or the curator? Neither one thing nor the other, because the mediator, who is leading the tour, pays no attention to her. But, after all, what is this girl doing?

A boy takes a ruler and measures the distance between him and the works of art. Is he the artist or the curator? The mediator continues, not paying the slightest attention to him. Was I wrong and is he just a passer-by?

I hear a tenuous sound. It reminds me of the music in lifts.

The security guard approaches the mediator. “Because of the specific nature of the works displayed at this exhibition, children shouldn’t be here,” he says.

We leave the place in a hurry.