Art should do more than ‘remind’.

It felt to Lally as if she were being presented to the painting rather than the other way around.

Would it be possible, ever, to be a good person in life as well as a great person in art? Both seemed to require every ounce of her energy at all times. Neither came naturally.

The universe was offering her an expanding view of professional opportunities while reminding her that her reproductive options were shrinking at an equivalent rate. Ironic.

Of course, that was the difference between a museum funded by an enduring estate and a gallery needing to actually sell shit, but still.

Lally’s early childhood memories of happiness were littered with details she’d spend the rest of her life interrogating for signs of her mother’s misery.

The gallery was both a teething child and an ageing parent—it needed constant care and maintenance. It required vigilance.

A man’s death leading to a life-changing amount of money. How it felt like receiving a paycheck for the work of enduring their cruelty.

It was like a sort of wealth grenade. Money made money.