You have to get the bus from Brixton tube station. The P4 from across the road. The streets of Brixton are crowded with folk ignoring Sunday, barging into you, their shopping bags stretched full, dirty coats on their backs, hard looks on their faces. They fill the grey sky.
Over the road, the P4 stop. After a few minutes we see the bus coming, a single-decker. A relief; it’s cold, windy. I’m shivering under my coat. I’m looking forward to being inside. But it’s never coming. It’s stuck at the back, behind an awkward parade of double-deckers packed with folk, arms leaning against high windows. More dirty coats. We watch our P4 edging slowly forward, no hope of getting past the buses queuing, unloading, filling up. Then, it stops to wait. A woman tries to get on, hauls her Primark bags past 4 buses to the P4. She bangs a cold fist on the windowed door. Waves to the driver. He shakes his head. She makes her way back to us and we wait until it’s time.
Dulwich village is empty. The sky grey as woolwire. We get off the bus alone. Go into the gallery, which is busy, but calm. The visitors are old, well turned out. Ladies that look and dress like the queen. Like they are going to church. Gents in suits, eye glasses, double-chins smiling.
The exhibition is in several connecting rooms that go in a straight line, a tunnel inside Norman Rockwell’s head. Exaggerated faces, long necks, adam’s apples, ruddy cheeks, bright colours that don’t disguise the darkness he felt inside.
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