Visitors to Millennium Park were startled this week when Cloud Gate — the beloved 110-ton chrome sculpture universally known as “The Bean” — began selectively refusing to display the reflections of tourists and residents who hadn’t visited the landmark in more than twelve months. The Bean, it appears, has been keeping track. The Bean remembers. The Bean has, against all known laws of metallurgy, developed the one trait no one ever wants to encounter in a public art installation: standards.

The phenomenon was first reported Tuesday morning by Streeterville resident Carol Yuen, 52, who approached the sculpture for a selfie only to find her reflection conspicuously absent from its mirrored surface. “I walked right up to it, held up my phone, and there was just… nothing where I should have been,” Yuen said. “Meanwhile, the guy next to me — who told me he comes every week — was reflected perfectly. It was like The Bean was giving me the silent treatment.” Which, for a sculpture that communicates exclusively through reflections, is about as devastating a snub as a 110-ton object can deliver.

Park officials confirmed that at least 200 visitors reported similar experiences throughout the day. A hastily assembled team of metallurgists, physicists, and one art therapist was dispatched to examine the sculpture, but initial findings only deepened the mystery. The Bean, for its part, sat there gleaming in the afternoon sun with the quiet self-assurance of something that knows exactly what it’s doing and has no intention of explaining itself.

“From a physics standpoint, this should be impossible,” said Dr. Anil Krishnamurthy, a materials scientist at the Illinois Institute of Technology who was called to the scene. “Chrome doesn’t have opinions. Chrome doesn’t hold grudges. And yet, when I ran my hand across the surface, I could feel what I can only describe as ‘judgmental warmth.’ I’ve been in this field for twenty years, and I have never been evaluated by a sculpture before.” He paused, then added, quieter: “I think it found me adequate but unexceptional.”

Artist Anish Kapoor, who created Cloud Gate in 2006, released a brief statement from his studio in London: “The Bean reflects Chicago. If Chicago hasn’t been showing up, perhaps The Bean has simply decided to reflect that absence. Art is a mirror, both literally and philosophically.” When pressed for a more technical explanation, Kapoor reportedly said, “I don’t tell The Bean what to do. Nobody tells The Bean what to do.” Which is a remarkable thing to say about something you built, but also — given the circumstances — appears to be objectively true.

The City of Chicago’s Department of Cultural Affairs has launched a formal investigation but in the meantime has posted temporary signage near the sculpture reading: “Cloud Gate’s reflection services are currently experiencing intermittent availability. Visitors with a consistent visitation history of once per calendar year or more should experience normal reflective functionality.” The sign, witnesses noted, looked profoundly embarrassed to be there — though that may just have been the wind making it flap apologetically.

Local reactions have been mixed. “Honestly, I respect it,” said Wicker Park resident Damon Jeffries, 28, whose reflection appeared without issue. “I come here every Sunday. The Bean knows who its real ones are.” He placed a hand on the sculpture’s flank as he said this, and several onlookers swore they saw the chrome warm slightly beneath his palm — though it could have just been the sun, if you’re the sort of person who still believes the sun is the only thing in Millennium Park capable of warmth.

Others were less amused. “I drove in from Naperville for this,” said frustrated visitor Greg Helmsley, 45, holding up a blank selfie. “My kids are going to think I photoshopped myself out of our family vacation photo.” The Bean, it should be noted, reflected his children beautifully. They visit with their school every spring. The Bean remembers.