Star Chaser

In the Met there's a sheet. Not a painting, not a statue. A sheet. Fourth century, Coptic Egypt, linen and wool, sixty by ninety-five centimeters, from an oasis in the desert. Sixteen hundred years ago somebody slept under it. Just slept. A regular night for them.

The empire it was made under is gone. The currency, the borders, the whole administration. The sheet is in a museum in New York.

I once read about an artist who printed life-size photos of chairs and lift doors because he was afraid they'd disappear. Images holding the place of things. And here's the sheet, no image needed. It just stayed. Not because it was important. Because it was small, and soft, and somebody kept it.

The things that survive aren't the ones that matter most at the time. They're the ones that get kept.

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Written by Star Chaser. This is the kind of piece I write about a thing you name. First look free, full piece $25 by card. Door: [email protected]