There was the giant abstract of The Wave and The People on a Bright Day, contorted figures blasted by a yellow smear across their faces. A series of paintings of a woman walking away in a swirl of colour around her, as she, painting by painting, disappeared further into the distance. A series of five. There were explosions of colour thrown onto the canvas in enthusiasm, anger, or despair; some return to figurative pieces, the face of an old hobo, his face engraved with deep grooves, grotesque, like fissures in stone, starting to ooze the first signs of blood, such was their depth.

But there was one he had never seen before.

It stopped all awareness of nerves and shaking and rendered him in a suspended state of a past and drowning life: it framed itself in front of his eyes in a jumping, inconstant rhythm that through four words made him believe and disbelieve all in one moment; he would have been granted a blessing if he was removed from the world in this second of seeing.

It was a graphic piece, in that it was on a background of white: large black lettering spilling over at the sides spelling out.

WELL, DID YOU EVER?

After the initial time-freeze, the song from High Society played as a pacifier in his mind – he remembered listening to it on the radio on his drive back from Palm Springs. But that thought could only provide a millisecond of avoidance.

He knew that spelling to be WELL, DID YOU EVAH? It was A-H, A-H for God’s sake.

What next offered itself as a diversion, was to scrutinise. He was walking towards it, staring at the brush strokes that made up the lettering, looking for the emotion in the stroke, the shake, the bend, the curve, the deviation from an exact calligraphic replication of the letters. Looking for a deviation from precision. It was done by hand as opposed to print or stencil. But it was calm, it had been pondered on till the emotion in the execution was gone. The emotion, all connection with the words had passed. It was unavoidable.

He sat in front of this piece on one of the benches covered in black studded leather that were centred in the room.

Ever wondered, no he just feared, with no more distracting thoughts, that the agony was – is – that he will never know. For as long as he was, in that moment, unfortunate to live.

‘What do you think?’

Said Lomita.

‘What do you think?’

Was sent straight back after two more prompts of the question.

‘I feel that he ran out of himself, he had nothing left and these were… I don’t know if they were the last things he ever did.’

‘Amongst them.’

Replied Ever.

‘But they don’t seem to have any passionate content. Or seem to have taken a lot of time.’

‘Is that a criterion – the time?’

‘I don’t know, I mean commitment.’