The Age | Where intimacy happens

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Prudence Flint. Photo by Eddie Jim.

Since art can be a mediating force for how a person can understand themselves and their life, and since life right now involves a perpetually interior existence between three or four rooms, I have lately been imagining myself as one of Prudence Flint’s painted women.

Hunched and eating a lonely bowl of soup; completing the ineloquent but necessary daily ritual of spitting toothpaste; standing aimlessly under shower streams; looking into mirrors; sitting; lying every which way, eventually resigned to the position of hanging upside-down off the end of the bed, staring until the end of time…

Originally published in The Age, read the full essay here.

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