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“I was standing on a bridge table in the locker room,” Bernstein said, “and as people are frantically looking for him to do a live TV shot some sixth sense told me to look to my left. As I looked down, he was sitting in this locker with his dad.”

“Bridge Table,” the sleek show-stopper of aluminum and tungsten carbide that greets visitors in the main part of the exhibit, resembles a smooth, silver-colored tree, with four trunk-like legs that separate into branches and extend to support a gleaming, flat surface.

Reluctant at first, he quickly completed a manuscript, writing on a collapsible bridge table under an apple tree.

As he sat inertly at the rickety bridge table that served as a desk, his lips were closed, his eyes were blank, and his face, with its pale ochre hue and ancient, confined clusters of minute acne pits, had the color and texture of an uncracked almond shell.

He set it down quickly on the bridge table.