I am watching supermum paint Brazilian carnival dancers onto a large board with face sized holes for children to stick their faces through. It’s for the school fete. We are in the kitchen and her glass of wine is untouched. I’m switching from one CD to another, listening to her talk (“What about passion fruit? Can you have that? Are there small yellow fruit in Brazil?”) whilst her hand and brush move decisively about the wood. Simultaneously, I’m standing in a memory of her in her studio space at art college nineteen years ago as her hand moves in the same sure, concentrated way and the air about it and us is stilled and quiet, regardless of the chatter in the cavernous shared space for Fine Art Year Two, or the music in our crowded kitchen and the neurotic cat under her feet.
Nineteen years changes people a lot but it doesn’t change everything. Some days I can even imagine believing in a thing called a soul.