Breughels, to my eye, look static, snapshots frozen in the blink of a lens. With this verse of John Fullers in my head the projector gets switched on & the picture starts to move. Even the sound comes up
from TWO GALLERIES
I linger in a room of Breughels, lost
To turnip children stout in winter clothes
Whose gods do not descend in poses full
Of lewd intent, but live in games & frost
And peasant weddings with their clogs & oaths
