Edith wants to be bathed in light. To be chosen, to be elected, to be one of them: the on screen stars. To be or not to be?
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She looked and saw his canvas covered in murky patterns. The pond, he said, for atmosphere, the criss-cross of light. I see, she said, but she did not…
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Edith Cull was finding the pencil a less critical an implement than her pen. For one thing she could rub things out or smudge them if they began glaring back at her…
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The character of Edith has grown from the glimpses of women I saw as a child: women living alone, often remotely, and scuttling around like peculiar insects…
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Withdrawal can be exquisite, that time spent behind the arras with the curtain blowing over shading your sight. Embroidered patterns flutter across the mind’s eye drawing out the shapes…
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