The room in full, straight on, with nothing in it.
I painted this one dead frontal and dead symmetrical, which is not how I usually work. The tube runs level across the top. The clock sits on the centre line. The seats run the width of the frame on their common rail. There is a rust-coloured stain coming down the wall behind the clock like a curtain that has been drawn once and never drawn back.
The clock is the point of the panel and I would like to be exact about it, because a viewer at a distance will assume it tells the time.
It does not. The face has gone. There are numerals on it and there are hands on it and none of it can be read, not from the seats, not from three feet away, not at any hour. Something happened to the enamel and the whole dial has silted over. It is a working clock in the strict sense that it is fixed to the wall and its hands are in motion.
So the room contains an instrument for knowing how long you have been there, and it is broken, and it has been left up. Nobody removed it. That would have required somebody to look at it, and the entire skill of a room like this is being unlooked at.
The seats are eight. I counted them a great many times over eleven hours and I will stand behind eight. They are moulded, bolted through a common bar, and slightly dished from use, and each one has a distinct pattern of wear on the seat pan which I painted individually because it is the only census the room keeps. Nobody signs in here. The record of who has been in this room is in the vinyl.
The floor is wet and takes a long yellow reflection off the tube. I would not normally light a municipal interior this way. It is too good for it. But that is what a wet composite floor does under a single tube at that height, and I am not in the business of making these rooms worse than they are.