Monkey well

In a city that rewards climbing ever higher, the sculpture of Xu Bing draws you downward, sinking further into the earth, layer by layer, into the quiet treasure rooms of the Sackler Gallery. Strung from the skylit ceiling, the steel monkeys link arm-by-arm, tail-by-tail in a column of text, down into the well. Each is the word monkey, in a different script – Chinese, Persian, Arabic. Monkey refers to chaos, to the disregard of human rules, to freedom from courtesy and politeness, but with intelligence and cleverness, loudly, raucously, in the quietest of all the Mall’s museums, the one most self-conscious of religion and identity, conflict and war, the long breaths of history. In the cacophony of this verticalized troupe, I hear the morning calls of the howlers at the National Zoo at dawn, the monkey who led Buddha on his journey, the organ grinder’s companion, the chap who made away with my sunglasses in Bali, or stole my sandwich in Gibralter. Deepening into the light. Laughing into the quiet.