take bow. don't move.

Sifting through all these images - meticulous diagrams, lyrics to songs I know by heart (and, I'm learning, know all wrong), things I couldn't possibly catch when it was all happening at once on the opening press day of 'David Bowie is' (V&a, as before) - and while my husband quietly snores next to me in bed, the soft rain outside - it's SNOWING, in spring, in England and Scotland and Wales - and it hit me.

Just a few words from notes on Suffragette City. 'Take bow. don't move.'

It's Gatsby.

That little notebook, at the end, that his father carried.. whatever it is that took the boy in the top shot, born seemingly fully formed, born a star, to the creature in the bottom shot, lies a dedication, a self awareness.. to know when all the children should boogie, and when it's better to simply stand still.

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