While we were still hanging the show, the place took a different life and so did the pictures. I was reminded of a sunny sunday afternoon with my father, he had played Sviatoslav Richter's interpretation of Mussorgsky "Picture at an exhibition" on the record player, I must have been 11 or so. I remember the texture of the light and the sound of my father's voice as he took me through the different pieces. As I looked at the pictures in my exhibition it was not music that I heard but words. A visitor to the show said that the pieces all seemed to have a secret... What would the words be if they could be spoken I wonder. Another source of inspiration.