Song parody of
The Gallery
by Freddie Lewis
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There's so much ceiling in here. And the light falls onto me in squares. Soles squeaking on the floorboards I must stop focusing on my feet. Leicester square sings a little in the background, but mostly there is the sound of all this space. A few faces that smile sarcastically to the wall. It's quite a rigid place to be seeing dead things living in. You don't think my trainers are solemn enough.
I wish that I could run my fingers over that canvas. Or take it off the wall and see behind. Isn't it futile to place all your earnest into a piece of paper as if it could hold it? As if it could even come close. As if this room the size of a house could hold it. As if we would notice if it did. I push my chin back and tense my stomach to delete my anterior pelvic tilt and then I just keep looking.
There's a person stood or sat in every corner. I'm sure they have so much to say. But they look on with their censor sat inside their mouths. I catch my hands cupped together behind my back and know their address is working. Quiet nodding into the room is insufficient to announce myself.
I do love it in here. Something about stop, look, read, in rhythm. Gold frames my forgetting that I'm supposed to hate anything at all. And it's working. It's been minutes since I last remembered all those questions.
It's then I notice how I shrink myself and I become colder. And the distance buzz of outside is my followed alibi. I hold the room in like a breath and then I let it go again. I hope that one day we lift that glass.
Outside in the daylight I regain a decade or so. Kicked a can right up to a bin and dropped it in as though I owned the place. Pillars of the sun laid down but they weren’t asleep they were just looking up.
When the form is fixed there is so much space to fill with feeling, but it was precisely the forgetting of the room which gifted me one so seductively abstruse. There is all this collision and context out here. There are no hands to hold the object. Only parts and no resolution. All these lives becoming certain only in that they never can be.
To understand the scene, we must look at the door. The way it peels and the wood is right there in the open. Handle made of bridge. It's opening proves itself and proves itself wrong until the two aren’t differentials.
We become so involuted that to observe that painting without precedent might be all we have left of candour. I'm stood with one foot in each partition so my body knows neither. I'm writing the outside in but vocabulary fails me at the threshold. I'm holding words under my tongue that haven't been written yet. The framed and the otherwise denounce the gallery in unison, by continuing to exist just a few yards away from each other.
There's so much ceiling in here. And the light falls onto me in squares. Soles squeaking on the floorboards I must stop focusing on my feet. Leicester square sings a little in the background, but mostly there is the sound of all this space. A few faces that smile sarcastically to the wall. It's quite a rigid place to be seeing dead things living in. You don't think my trainers are solemn enough.
I wish that I could run my fingers over that canvas. Or take it off the wall and see behind. Isn't it futile to place all your earnest into a piece of paper as if it could hold it? As if it could even come close. As if this room the size of a house could hold it. As if we would notice if it did. I push my chin back and tense my stomach to delete my anterior pelvic tilt and then I just keep looking.
There's a person stood or sat in every corner. I'm sure they have so much to say. But they look on with their censor sat inside their mouths. I catch my hands cupped together behind my back and know their address is working. Quiet nodding into the room is insufficient to announce myself.
I do love it in here. Something about stop, look, read, in rhythm. Gold frames my forgetting that I'm supposed to hate anything at all. And it's working. It's been minutes since I last remembered all those questions.
It's then I notice how I shrink myself and I become colder. And the distance buzz of outside is my followed alibi. I hold the room in like a breath and then I let it go again. I hope that one day we lift that glass.
Outside in the daylight I regain a decade or so. Kicked a can right up to a bin and dropped it in as though I owned the place. Pillars of the sun laid down but they weren’t asleep they were just looking up.
When the form is fixed there is so much space to fill with feeling, but it was precisely the forgetting of the room which gifted me one so seductively abstruse. There is all this collision and context out here. There are no hands to hold the object. Only parts and no resolution. All these lives becoming certain only in that they never can be.
To understand the scene, we must look at the door. The way it peels and the wood is right there in the open. Handle made of bridge. It's opening proves itself and proves itself wrong until the two aren’t differentials.
We become so involuted that to observe that painting without precedent might be all we have left of candour. I'm stood with one foot in each partition so my body knows neither. I'm writing the outside in but vocabulary fails me at the threshold. I'm holding words under my tongue that haven't been written yet. The framed and the otherwise denounce the gallery in unison, by continuing to exist just a few yards away from each other.
