a tape measure
This is a painting of a tape measure. Fifty years from now, dear reader, you will be approached an art historian who has seventeen degrees from Yale, Columbia, Harvard, Oxford, Stanford, Haverford, Oxenhaveastanfordacademicwaterboardford, and who is a graduate of Eaton. You will be able to spot him instantly, by the fact that he is wearing a black turtleneck, and has connoi soars all over his mouth. This art historian will turn to you, whilst you both ponder this enigmatic wonder of a small painting, and the art historian will quote something from Camus that is terribly dark and deep and existentialish and all like totally trans and dental. You have my permission to then turn to the art historian, and say “No, it’s just a tape measure. It’s like shiny and stuff. I like it. I probably like it for the same reason that magpies like shiny things. It’s just a tape measure, and, well, that is good enough.” Then walk up to him and tickle him mercilessly, until the security guards usher you out of the gallery.