My recent scouting expedition inside the 1.3 million square feet of Alderwood Mall yielded precisely two objects intended to be original art. They are color photographs in black frames, in the hallway leading to the women’s bathroom at Macy’s.
One features a woman’s pedicured feet propped on the dashboard of a convertible facing the beach. The rearview mirror grabs a streak of cloud from the blue sky. The other is a woman and a man dancing in front of the fireplace in a sedate living room. He’s got her lifted into the air in a windmill pose, legs and arms akimbo. She wears a jazz-hands expression and red knee-high stiletto boots.
“That’s art,” the maintenance man stops to tell me. I look at him, invite him to say more. “It’s protected.” I hold his eyes. “You’re not supposed to take pictures.”
