Falling in love with objects in the museum

 Does this happen to anyone else?

This is the Taureau Tricorne de Glanum (the three-horned bull found in the ancient Roman ruins of Glanum).

I saw it in the Musée des Alpilles in St-Rémy de Provence, when I was there last March.

It is tiny (not much more than 5cm in length), almost two thousand years old, and one of the most perfect physical objects that I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on.

I wanted to hold it in my hand, to feel the weight of it resting in my palm, to smell the bronze as it warmed with the heat of my blood under the skin.

See how exquisitely balanced it is, the smooth curve of the muscles, the grace of the limbs and tail, the proud neck, soft nose, the eye which looks at you.

Two thousand years ago, a human made this. Their eyes saw a shape from nature and they pressed it into something almost eternal, so that my eyes, twenty centuries later, could join them in the seeing.

I wanted so badly to touch it, which I know is why historical objects have to be kept protected behind thick glass, so that our craving for that connection with the past is not allowed to obliterate the thing itself.

Instead I carefully move the lens of my camera as close to the glass as possible, my finger resting on the shutter button. Touch with your eyes, I hear the voice inside me say.

(I realise, thinking about that moment now, that this is why I love photography. This is how you touch the untouchable: artefacts, moments in time. The light.)