Peter Stichbury is painting our stupor. This is the expression of people who can’t believe the times they are living in, are yet to disclose the greatest surprise. Danger, fear, enchantment, with a drop of hopelessness and resignation, as if nothing could stop the snowball of a complete disaster. Yet, in his big painted faces that are still dripping fresh oil from wet lips and wet eyes, we are almost sure to find a faint trace of consolation. Hope? You may call it this way; may be it’s just our last finger that keeps us hanging on a freeclimbing folly, the abyss way too far to let us calculate the distance of our fall, keeping us alive, with a spark of electric shock running down our spine. There’s no doubt: these are noble faces. People who never had to worry for the daily bread. They all share an aristocratic height, a distance they prefer to maintain from us. Look closer, and you’ll find out they are not looking at you. Not at all. They are looking after you, as if you didn’t even exist, a mere obstacle between them and their upcoming destiny.