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.
|Number of pages||3|
|Journal||Cultural Studies Review|
|Publication status||Published - Dec 2019|
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- Child abuse and neglect
- Elder care