They told him he'd be doing a show at their gallery/house. There'd be an invited audience and musical support and a keg and fine times and popcorn. They hadn't told him that sixteen people from a variety of universes'd spent months disgorging their art into a whole big actual situation based entirely on his words. He'd been in a car having not the foggiest, with one of the pillars of the gallery/house next to him, driving, every day somewhere else and every night a gig, while the gallery/house behind them hoarded all the look-at-thats. When they finally got to the gallery/house it was late and he didn't want any tea. He had a look at what was stuck to the walls and hanging from the ceiling and settled on the floor and began to realise they all existed only because of his words. He'd sent sixteen people into various raptures and crises and puzzlements and they'd emerged thank-eyed and gladstruck, some of them through side-doors they hadn't known were there until they pushed, and the next night quite a few of these people and their friends turned up to look at the look-at-thats while fractured drones and glistening kicks crept into their ears and fifty mouths gobbled popcorn hot out of cones and yes pleased ale out of any available vessel until a writhing silence erupted and it was time for him to speak.