Tibetan Ant Painting

The crumbling temple was an entomologist's dream. Few Westerners were allowed inside these walls. Partly out of homage for the town's religious centerpiece, partly a preventative measure to keep them from killing the thousands of bugs housed there in one massive attack of the heebie-jeebies--the monks used the insects during meditations and rituals. 'Filed' in largish ant farms, there were ants of every variety I've ever run across in my profession, and a few I'd only read about. Some were naturally colorful; others were dotted with tiny marks of dye in every hue in the rainbow. In one farm, ants dotted with little white marks, in another, violet. Fire ants in another corner.

In the center of the room, an old monk squatted in front of a mat, placing the bugs, one by one, in exactly the right spot on the painting mat. Each critter would fret for awhile until it realized it could go nowhere until the monk allowed. The mat was covered with a primitive timed adhesive; it would remain semi-tacky for as long as the monk would keep it wet, but would lose grip on its captives as it air-dried. As I watched, the painting outline became more clear as more and more red fire ants were painstakingly applied. It appeared to be an impressionistic interpretation of some kind of curved bread. Having long developed an immunity of simple toughness against their bites, the monk would simply smile at the fire ants survival instincts to bite him.

Hours later, the completed picture began to transmorgify and lose cohesion, as the ant pixels, rejuvinated by some technique I'll have to investigate as a scientist, scurried back to their respective colonies, in single-file, following their leader's scent home.