ONE

It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust. After the initial sharp glare and the moments blinking, we see a white rectangle hanging in the blackness. We use the rare opportunity of light to glance at the faces of those around us. It takes a moment (they are grey and weary) but we come to recognise them as the people we have known deeply in these seven days underground. Seeing their faces again calms us, but we don’t look at them for long; what we are being shown is important. And it is white. So intense after our long age in the dark. Surely white is the colour of hope.

We sit forward, listening to the tense hush as each person restricts their breath to the absolute minimum. This bright projection seems fragile-a puff of air and it will be gone. Our heavy silence holds it in place and the tension presses us against our seats. We stare at the blank white rectangle.

Only, it’s not actually blank. Maybe our eyes have adjusted, or perhaps the image was slowly pulled into focus. We can’t tell. Either way, there is now a dense, short-pile texture. Pristine fibres woven tightly form this blank canvas.

The picture pans down slowly and we are shown the first brushstroke. Red, one crimson fleck. Then another.

As if sensing our instinctive alarm, the picture moves more quickly. More flecks appear, and more and more, until fine-spray detail washes into broad strokes. Up until now, these red flecks and streaks have been random, but as the picture zooms out we can see the terrible pattern they create. There is art in this fury.