If I were to go anywhere with anyone, it would be this room with, well, never you mind.
There are hundreds, if not thousands, of art galleries around the world, filled with salmon-wearing denizens swimming around in an upper middle class soup, politely avoiding eye contact. Good heavens madam, I am here for Caravaggio!
I grow tired of playing city games, sidewalk hopscotch and street walk coldness. After a good dinner at a little place in the city, I like to catch the art galleries just before closing.
I like to listen to the guards talk of catching buses home amid million dollar paintings.
I like to check if the Steinway is locked or indeed if it could hide a woman under its feathery wing.
I like to dance through empty courtyards and galleries, other worlds winking through the rooftop windows.
And most of all, I like to see the colour of the gallery walls.
I could not give a fig for the paintings.
These are the family portraits of Ireland, muted faces silently disapproving of you as a chil…
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