One figure, drawn again by every hand
drag to lead the figure along the wall · press and hold on it and it takes the room's pose · the left and right arrows walk it, and the up arrow poses
A figure in a red scarf walks an endless wall of pictures, and each picture draws it over in its own marks. In a painted cave it is smudged charcoal, carrying the only light, so the beasts on the rock fall dark behind it; it presses a hand to the wall and leaves a stencil there, blown in red ochre, that stays for every pass after. On a vase after the Attic potters it is black slip on fired clay, its dress and its eye cut back through the black; it draws a bow, and the two spearmen painted there turn to watch. Under a window of coloured glass it is panes held in black lead, glowing; it turns to face you with its hands together, a halo opens behind its head, and the rose lets three beams of its light down. In Leonardo's notebook it is pen and ink, hatched on the side away from the light; it turns to face you inside his circle and square, and his second figure stands behind it with its arms raised to the circle. In a print after Hokusai it is flat colour inside a carved line, crossing a plank bridge before a red Fuji; a wave rises under it, curling over into claws of foam, and it rides the crest. In a meadow after Monet it is dabs of oil, painted in shadow against a sky of cloud; a parasol opens over it and the wind takes the scarf. On a riverbank after Seurat it is points of colour among the strollers; it stands in profile, and a top hat and a cane come to it. On a photographic plate after Muybridge it is a sepia study against a ruled backdrop, the scarf tinted by hand, and every stride leaves an exposure standing behind it; it stops mid-step and the whole stride is laid out in a row. On a wall after Mondrian every limb snaps upright or level, a block of primary colour in a black rule, and the walk goes in steps; it throws one arm up and one out, and each straight limb runs on as a line of the wall. In a cartridge game it is a sprite of fat pixels, stepping a frame at a time; it hops and strikes a block overhead, a coin leaps out, and the score along the top goes up and stays. On a concrete wall after Banksy it is a cut stencil sprayed black with its hood up, the scarf the one red thing; it sits for a portrait, a gilt frame comes about it, and the portrait slides out through the frame's foot in strips while a pigeon looks on, until a cleaner sweeps the strips up and carries the frame away, and the wall keeps the nail. On a sunset made of ones and noughts it is the wall's own glyphs, lit, with a wake cooling behind it; it comes apart into loose bits that drift up the picture, and comes back. Where two pictures meet, the figure in the doorway is half one hand and half the next. The scarf is the one thing every picture keeps. Left alone it walks and performs for each room. Drag to lead it along the wall, either way, and press and hold on it to ask for the room's pose.