Turin, Lingotto: under the Agnelli art gallery

On a hot and muggy Sunday afternoon we leave the house to go to the Frank Lloyd Wright exhibition, just the last day before it closes.

Perhaps because of the contrast between the heat outside and the air conditioning inside, the shopping gallery seems almost peaceful. Straight to the lift: we go up.

At the exhibition's ticket counter, the cerberus on duty rolls his eyes, evidently annoyed by our interruption. His smartphone is resting on the table, within easy reach. We ask if there are any conventions: the annoyance becomes almost tangible. There are no conventions for us: we pay the full ticket and go in, avoiding going deeper and taking further risks.

The exhibition is interesting: beautiful drawings, all the charm of Wright's architecture.

A comical atmosphere accompanies us throughout the tour: the captions of the works are written in body 8 and hung in unlikely positions. The end effect is that we visitors bend over, stretch, tiptoe up and assume unusual poses to find the right position and distance from the plaques and read. Some, quite rightly, abdicate: all it takes is a thread of sciatica or an imperfect pair of glasses to prevent us from delving deeper.

On leaving the exhibition, a stroke of karma balances out the experience: a gentleman in his seventies, of a welcoming and empathetic kindness, asks us if we have ever been up to the picture gallery. He asks all visitors who pass by his station, and to each one he reserves a moment of contact, which is anything but obvious.