Nameless heads on nameless walls so Don eloquently put it. Oversized canvasses adorn plain walls in varnished memory of the past. Cracked fading desert lake surfaces yellowed with age and smoke and weariness of hanging for so long. But a picture is told not just in the portrait but in the scene behind the scene, If you look closely a lot of other things are being said. For whatever reason a cloud of heaviness haunts me when in a gallery. My legs becomes lead weights my head starts to droop like a wilted flower and my heart seems to be sinking to China or the South pole or some where down below. The atmosphere, the observation wears me out so quickly. Visual stimulation perhaps overloads the electrical substation in my visual cortex and weariness results.

The balls of my feet start to ache and solace is found in a faux leather bench where I stare up at a Degas or a Piccaso or something in a shapeless mass that means something to somebody. I’m not too educated you see, but I know when something appeals, when a register opens and cashes in a ‘Yes’. I understand this. Do If feel dumb sometimes wandering around these  halls and walls, that I don’t know ‘enough’ to make it make sense? I find audio guides useful, the headphones claw my ear, a fluid voice informs me of the history so I don’t feel so stupid and I get educated. The voice seems to flow through me like a velvet river, soothing and smooth, maintaining my interest, taking me further into the hidden past. Motivations seem now to leap from the paint, the choices of colours, the social scenarios, the artists keen observations preserved for me to gain insights and to marvel at. The walls now seem to come alive.