On the smooth pale boards were smeared patches of blue, red, purple and yellow, and my heart ached. The artist was wispy, with anxiety of movement and murmurs of kindness. It was a long time ago; recently I met her by chance at the train station.1 I sense those shapes since, and on many occasions, the bruises in paint filling the room. I think about what I have heard and seen.
Bibliographical noteThis is an Open Access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0) License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/), allowing third parties to copy and redistribute the material in any medium or format and to remix, transform, and build upon the material for any purpose, even commercially, provided the original work is properly cited and states its license.
- Child abuse and neglect
- Elder care