how it makes sense to act in an art museum

The other day I went to the art museum and upstairs - this really happened, truly - a girl was crying. She was sitting in front of the Mona Lisa, crying. Okay, so this wasn't the Louvre and it wasn't the Mona Lisa, but there was a girl sitting with the art, crying. She was probably crying because she was giving birth in an art museum rather than in a sterile hospital bed. Well, no - she wasn't actually giving birth, but what I mean to say is that she was crying as if it was the Mona Lisa. 

I wanted to ask her why she was crying but instead I said, "This isn't the Mona Lisa." I can't even remember the work of art that upset her so much, it was truly that unremarkable. It could have been a blank canvas, yet her wails echoed against the stark ceilings. The thing is, she wasn't the only one.

People around me were wailing, screaming, slamming fists against the walls, sobbing tears onto the floor as they lay in the fetal position. Two men were fighting - fighting, I swear - struggling against the weight of the other, until suddenly they stopped and began to sway. One woman knelt on the tile floor, puking and puking and heaving until nothing more came out of her mouth. Two others were dancing - leaping - and one person sat in the corner, laughing and laughing, saying "Mary, Mary, oh Mary!" Someone lay on their back in the middle of the floor, unflinching as emotions whirled around the room, inches from their face.

I go to the art museum because, which is the art? Who are the subjects? How can we feel? Is the point of art not to make you feel? Why do we stand silently? Why do we not leap and cry and scream and laugh?

Where do you go?