I forgot to add this oil painting I saw hanging in someone's library this Easter. We found it particularly disturbing. The bleakness and utter desolation and fear I get from this woman is undeniable to me (maybe she hated the artist and just didn't want to sit there, but I'm pretty certain she was just generally thoroughly bitter). All this comforting lived in homeyness around her and even the bright sunniness and ochre walls of the place hold no comfort at the end of life for this woman having tea alone while sitting her bony backside on a very thick pillow. I feel terrible for her and her fear. I feel terrible for her in every respect. "Like an arrow that has missed it's mark lying on the grass, bewailing it's misspent past..."
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