Your back and my front.

It is sad and thirst-making to see the something an artist has made eclipsed by the back of them, standing as viewer between me and the work.
The work is pre-viewed. I am not, then, viewer. I am spectator to the artist-as-viewer viewing his own work. I am a third, not a second.
Eclipsed, I cannot even say that the work exists, but must take on faith its existence by the artist-as-viewers back there in front of me, not staring me down.
Sometimes the head turns, and over his shoulder is yelled "It's blue!" or "It's Lacan!".
Magic eight ball back.