Dancers in pink

Armchair travel. Inspired by Dagas.

In this white space filled with soft light, creaking floorboards and hushed voices surround me. They whisper to each other, pause, increase in volume to say 'The juxtaposition of this piece is really just so, the texture of the brush strokes, they don't make good art like this anymore.' They move on. Flitting like moths from one canvas to the next. There is a vaguely chemical smell, the dancers I have been studying begin to blur. I stretch, my stool wobbles. There is a cough from behind me, a shhing, the noise of cars passing in the distance. Or maybe it is a muffled applause. I turn my attention back to the painting in front of me and something brushes past my elbow.

Spinning on the spot, I peer into the darkness and spy a girl dressed in blue vanishing amongst the painted tree cut outs.

The buzz of chatting is different now, exited, nervous.

A group of girls in pink readjust the flowers in their hair, and straighten their stockings again. The smell has changed too, greesepaint, sweat and dust hang thick, heavy and closer. There is not enough air here between the curtains.

I move away from the splintering boards, out amongst the flurry of people carrying things here and there. Rushing past with pins, with brushes and paper butterflies. I weave my way between racks of clothes, between piles of rope and wooden mountains until I come to a door. Pushing it open I drink in the starless sky. The cold pulls the sticky closeness of the stage from my shoulders.

I step down onto wet slabs, shimmering like a river under the gaslight.

This is a back street and quite, I turn down one ally and then another, letting my feet find the way. Above me, the towering houses lean in, as if, on this hope filled night the buildings themselves are trying to bring together their balconies' lonely inhabits.

Coming to a steep set of stairs, the slippery iron rail bites my hand as I nearly miss the first step. At the bottom, the square is filled with the warm and welcoming light of a cafe.

A cat curls past my legs, slipping with me into the smoky room, his tail clings to my leg, before he disappears into the crowd of feet. Near the back wall, I find my table, where talk has turned from the troubles of today, to the politics of tomorrow.

I take an offered glass of something sweet and spicy; it tastes of apple blossom and rebellion. I pull my stool forward, lose my balance, fall, crash, into the gallery floor.