Empty spaces, everywhere: canvasses,
dirty but resolutely blank, are stretched along the ends of tenements
and up the sides of tower-blocks. Here and there windows pierce them,
looking terribly small amidst the white – like timid, suspicious
eyes peering through a chink in curtains drawn tightly against the
world and the sun.
The murals here are in the underpasses,
or along the brick walls of abandoned places. Every artist signs his
name, and each is just as anonymous as the next. It it you, sitting
next to me in the bus-stop with your track-suit and weary face, whose
mind is full of difficult questions asked in dazzling colours?
And from the ends of the bus-stop, or
the hoardings, other eyes are silently observing: the inhabitants are
all stuck buying razors and make-up and using them to look sternly
attractive, day and night without a rest. Look carefully into those
eyes. It's driving them crazy!
If it were up to me, the mural-painters
would be clambering on scaffolding, daubing those blank canvases with
essays and poems. And the people in the bus-stop ends and hoardings
could take a well-earned day off. For once, they could get up and
make breakfast without first getting their hair perfectly arranged.
For once they could smile.
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