This is the equivalent of going on the pull in London, Tommy says to Sammy. Well, you better know something about art if you want to pull birds in here, Sammy says to him, because this is not the most popular spot to pick up an uneducated Irishman. Sure, I know all about the art, Tommy says to Sammy, with my eyes, he says, I know all there is to know. Those eyes, okay, Sammy says to him, let’s see.

Okay, Sammy says to him, tell us about this painting here (it’s a painting with three trees, huddled close together, with a flock of birds in the background and with shadows across the field, in the evening). That was obviously painted during the olden days, Tommy says to Sammy. And how do you make that out? Sammy says to him. Because it’s in black and white, it has been painted in black and white, Tommy says. It’s not a fucking telly, Sammy says to Tommy, it’s not like they invented colour at a certain point. Of course they fucking invented colour, Tommy says to Sammy, don’t be a fucking madman, somebody had to dream that up.

This guy, Tommy says, pointing to a painting of a pale suffering Christ illuminated in his agony and with spectators running all the way into the past and the future; this is the guy what dreamt up colour, he says. Colour existed before this clown, Sammy says to him, get real. There’s a difference between something existing and something being dreamt up, Tommy says. That’s called art, Tommy says to Sammy. Art’s called what? Sammy says to Tommy. When Christ shops up, Tommy says to Sammy, he pulls an audience by the art of illuminating Himself.