I came to Oxford rather early for dinner with friends who live there, and so I walked around town. The weather was nice. I ended up at the Ashmolean, whose helter-skelter intimacy has always enchanted me. Looking for nothing in particular, I went left and right, up and down. And so I stumbled upon a room plastered with signs saying “Quiet Please” and “Thank You for Your Donation.” I walked in. Behind a makeshift wall, behind a small crowd, I saw four Tibetan Buddhist monks making a smallish sand mandala. From day-to-day photographic record posted on a wall, I could see that they were half-way to completing it. It will have taken them fifteen days, after which they will go to another museum, gallery, or exhibition hall on their pilgrimage in support of the Tibetan cause. Although the mandala turned out to be the crown of my wandering, it was an unexpected disappointment, as well. Mandalas are not meant for public places crammed with screaming children. They are not meant for unintended witnesses. The painstaking ritual is not meant for mindless gawking. Perhaps worst of all, the colored sand is not meant for bright museum light. In the gloom of the temple, the traditional colors appear subtle, I am sure. At the Ashmolean, they are alarmingly garish, like a cheap Chinese restaurant. Neither the monks nor the museum curators have any idea about this, as though electric light has been with us since creation.