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.
Tiarney Miekus 