Zen Bestiary

The creature pressed in warm amber plastic — the kind that imitates honey without committing to it. Light enters the surface for a few millimetres and then changes its mind. The form holds, but the warmth is borrowed; up close you can almost hear the material deciding whether to age or to remain stubbornly new.

Set in a jelly the colour of old amethyst. The body trembles whenever the room shifts and, if you wait long enough, resettles into the same shape, slightly less convinced of itself than before. A specimen for patient viewing, ideally from a chair, with the lights dimmed enough to take the colour seriously.

Cast in glass kept just shy of breaking blue. The colour is dense at the edges and thin at the centre, so that the creature reads as something glimpsed under cold water rather than directly on a shelf. A small tap on the surface with a fingernail would not be appreciated by the bestiary's curators.

Blue glass, lit from somewhere behind the figure. In this entry the creature serves more as lens than as subject — what you read is the light that has passed through it, slightly tinted, slightly slowed, with all of the figure's interior gathered into the transmission instead of the silhouette.

Jelly the colour of a calm afternoon pool. The creature inside wears the colour like a slow swimsuit, and the rest of the bestiary respectfully gives it space. Touch is not advised: the surface is friendlier than the centre, which has not entirely forgotten that it could, in theory, leave on its own.

Plastic with the matte of a cheap toy. The creature has been demoted to childhood and seems unbothered by the demotion. The surface scratches easily; the form, somehow, survives the scratching, the way certain figures survive being mass-produced by retaining their original posture under all conditions.

Half blue, half purple, with no clear seam between the two. The catalogue allows entries that refuse to settle on a single colour; this one has taken the permission seriously and now belongs to both columns at once, a small administrative irritation that the bestiary has come to enjoy.

Rubber that has lost a little of its bounce. The figure feels older in this material than in others — not damaged, just patient. The blue is the colour of public swimming-pool liners, and it stays that way under any light, including the kind of light bestiaries usually reserve for more precious specimens.

Glass the colour of arrested blood. Whatever motion the creature once had has been settled by the cooling of the glass; the red is dense enough to register as weight as well as colour. Visitors tend to lower their voices around this entry without being asked, which the curators allow without commenting on it.

The creature in cyan — very honestly cyan, the way swimming-pool tile is cyan, with no apology for the loudness. The form has not changed; the material has simply decided to be heard from across the room. The bestiary uses this entry to remind visitors that brightness is, technically, also a material.

Eyes the colour of pool tile. The rest of the body has been allowed to recede; in this entry only the gaze is permitted to be cyan, and the rest of the figure carries the consequence of being upstaged by its own attention. It is, in the bestiary's opinion, one of the more honest entries.

Fur the colour of an unhealthy sky. The pelt sits a little awkwardly on the form, the way dye sometimes sits on fabric that was never intended to receive it. It looks soft; it is not. Visitors who insist on testing the texture are reminded by the curators that bestiaries are not, in general, petting zoos.

Wool keeping the cold edge of the colour. Knitted, by implication, by someone who lived nowhere near the sea but kept hearing about it. The creature wears it well anyway, the way landlocked people sometimes wear nautical clothing without anybody objecting on principle.

Rubber pretending, briefly, to be precious. The green is too saturated to be jewellery and too rich to be industrial; the catalogue files it under both, just in case the eras change their minds about which one this material is supposed to belong to.

Jelly holding a small private sunset inside it. The light does not move with the body — it stays where it was poured. The figure looks lit from within because, technically, it is, and the bestiary has chosen not to disclose where the sunset was originally sourced from.

Fur the colour of damp moss in shade. The pelt looks as though it should smell of the forest floor, even though it has never been near one. The form underneath remains the same; only the light it returns has changed, and the change is enough to make the figure feel foreign to its own outline.

Glass with the green of a bottle in grass — that specific colour that only exists once a bottle has been thrown away long enough to be forgotten. The creature, in this material, looks discarded by a wealthier era, which is a useful condition to keep in the bestiary for comparison.

Plastic too saturated to be from nature. The green is the green of toys, of dashboards, of objects that do not have to obey the seasons. The form survives the volume of the colour, but only just, and the bestiary uses this entry to demonstrate the upper limit of what a creature can tolerate before becoming an object.

Rubber with the dull green of old tools. The surface has the patience of something that has been gripped many times by many hands. The figure looks slightly used, and is clearly unbothered by the use; the bestiary considers this material a good influence on the more vain of its specimens.

Glass tuned to a sharp, citrus pitch. The colour is high enough to taste; the form, normally calm, looks slightly startled into it, as if the material had announced its intentions a fraction of a second after the figure had already agreed to be cast. Pleasant for a short visit, and tiring afterwards.

Fur in a pink that refuses to apologise. The catalogue does not record where the colour came from; the entry simply notes that the pelt is loud and that the creature carries the loudness as if it were a virtue. The bestiary keeps this entry near the door for the benefit of new visitors.

Rubber loud enough to be heard at a distance. The figure stands in the middle of the entry like a road cone — useful, conspicuous, unmissable. The colour stays the same even when the light fails, which is the bestiary's quiet way of saying that some materials do not negotiate with weather.

Coral pulled directly from the signage. Whatever the reef would have produced in its own time has been pre-empted; the result is the colour of fast-food awnings and old arcade interiors. The form, however, remembers the reef, and you can feel the original geometry under the borrowed brightness if you stand near enough.

A beast painted in a single, honest orange. The catalogue keeps a few entries this plain on purpose, as a reminder that not every specimen needs to be complicated. The form does the work; the colour stays out of the way and lets the figure declare itself in its own time.

Fur warm enough to suggest a sun behind it. The pelt seems to give off a low heat, although measurement would not confirm this. In cold rooms, this entry is the most popular, and the curators have noted that visitors stand slightly closer to it than they realise.

Jelly the colour of overripe persimmon. The figure looks ready to collapse and never does; the material is firmer than the colour suggests, which makes it a useful misdirection for the bestiary. Visitors who underestimate it tend to come back later, more respectful, and stay longer the second time.

A monster too orange to be taken seriously, which is part of its strategy. The form retains a hint of menace under the colour; standing close, the orange begins to read as warning rather than candy, and the monster — patient, decorative — waits for the visitor to catch up to the distinction.

Plastic pretending to be fruit. The catalogue allows mimicry; this entry tests how far it can be allowed to go. The form is creature, the colour is grocery store, the material is neither, and the resulting figure occupies a small unclaimed space between the three.

Glass with a soft, almost edible pink. The figure looks as though it should be hung in a window above a sink, and the bestiary notes, dryly, that it has been so hung at least once. The pink has not faded under the kitchen light, which the curators consider proof of the material's resilience.

Jelly that wobbles with each small noise in the room. The figure has the dignity of a dessert at a state dinner — formally arranged, easily disturbed, mostly admired from a respectful distance. The curators have started to suspect that the jelly is paying attention to which visitors are quietest, but they have not published this yet.

Plastic of the cheapest, friendliest sort. The colour is the colour of cheap erasers and old toys; the creature, in this material, becomes briefly approachable, and the bestiary uses this entry for visitors who are unsure how to behave around the more serious specimens.

Rubber the colour of a clean eraser. The figure has the practical air of office supplies, and the faintly bossy posture that comes with it. There is a quiet suspicion among the curators that, given the opportunity, this specimen would correct your handwriting and then return to its station without comment.

Wool dyed for a child who never used it. The pelt has the soft, slightly forgotten quality of fabric kept in a drawer for too long. The creature does not seem to mind being unused; in fact, it appears to prefer the arrangement, and the bestiary has stopped offering to relocate it.

Glass the colour of a thoughtful bruise. The figure looks like an injury that has decided to be ornamental, and the bestiary keeps it on display where the light is steady, so the bruise stays the same age for as long as possible. Visitors are advised not to ask after the original wound.

Jelly that took its colour from a flower no one in the building can name. The figure carries the colour with the calm of an object that has been complimented many times by mistake. The bestiary keeps the original flower somewhere in storage, in case the colour ever needs to be defended in court.

Plastic that wants to be velvet and almost gets away with it. From a few steps back, the entry could pass for a fabric figurine; up close, the material confesses. The curators have noted that visitors who walk away too quickly tend to remember it incorrectly, which the figure seems to prefer.

Wool the colour of evening, indoors — the purple that occurs in rooms after a lamp has been on for a while. The creature wears it without ceremony; it looks as though it has been waiting for someone to come home, and the bestiary has not had the heart to inform it that the someone has been redirected to a different exhibit.

Red glass, the kind used for warnings. The figure has been kept in a vitrine for safety — not because it is dangerous, but because the colour, once seen, is hard to put down. The catalogue advises a brief visit, after which most visitors take a longer second visit anyway.

Jelly remembering an older, deeper red than the room currently provides. The colour at the centre is wine; at the edges it is the colour of cheap candy, and the figure refuses to commit to either. The bestiary has filed the entry under both, and considers the matter closed.

Wool with the red of an honest sweater. The catalogue uses this entry to demonstrate that material can be warm without being precious. The creature wears the colour like a uniform from a kind office — the kind of office that lets you keep your coat on indoors.

Fur in the violet of a long winter dusk. The pelt reads as expensive without trying — the colour does the work. The creature inside the colour looks slightly tired, which is appropriate to the season, and the bestiary keeps the lights low around this entry as a courtesy.

Glass the colour of the last hour of light. The figure is best viewed at exactly that hour; at all other times the catalogue politely overstates its qualities. The curators have considered changing the lighting to compensate but have, so far, declined out of respect for the original colour's preferences.

Glass tuned to a single warm yellow. The figure looks lit even when the room is dark — not because it glows, but because the colour holds light a little longer than it should be allowed to. A specimen for evening visits, when the difference between glass and lamp is at its least important.

Yellow leaning, quietly, into pink. The catalogue files this under both colours; the material itself is reluctant to be filed under either. The figure stays in the corner of the page, the way certain colleagues stay in the corner of the meeting — present, useful, deliberately uncategorisable.

Rubber the colour of a kitchen glove. The figure looks ready for some kind of unglamorous work, and the catalogue notes that this entry has been borrowed more often than any other. It returns each time slightly more worn, slightly more itself, and the curators have stopped pretending to mind.

Wool the colour of a small, slow afternoon — the specific yellow that lives in rooms at three o'clock. The creature wears it as if it were always going to. It may be the most patient entry in the bestiary, and is certainly the one most visitors describe, afterwards, as the room they did not want to leave.