I am back at art school with some of my old friends: Vicky (now my step mother) is there and Judith too. My friends at the time were mostly women, mostly in their fifties.
Vicky is asking the teacher about her painting (he is white, middle aged and authoritative in his half moon specs):
“Should I put in shading, should I be painting the shadows?” She asks him.
“Well it depends” he replies “the shadows make it real, without these your painting is just decoration, it is merely decorative.”
He shows us a small oil painting of a pink orchid: it is deeply shaded - almost bruised it is so dark - and as I stare I feel enveloped in its folds.
Vicky returns to her painting and considers the teachers remarks. I can tell from her shoulders that she is annoyed and feels somehow bruised by them.
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