We went to see her yesterday. I went to draw the Home as well. It makes me feel a little uncomfortable the way that my need to draw orchestrates these visits. I hope she doesn’t see it as so. I hope she knows what I feel about her. It struck me how static she is. Is it being virtually chair-bound that makes her so? Her head moves, the way an owl’s does, swivelling slowly to see what is happening outside the door, or to answer a question I bat over to her from my position on the floor. She holds herself still, that is except for her hands that are forever rubbing, kneading and caressing each other. Do they hurt? Ache, perhaps. She holds them up high as she does this massaging. She smelt good. Her skin is cool and unexpectedly soft. She smelt of spring flowers and talcum powder. What is it about the smell of perfumed talcum powder that calms me? I feel it in my gut, my stomach. It’s a dry smell, it lays on the skin, it is not absorbed in the way that a scented cream would be. The calming effect is probably association. I have known women who have given me safety that have smelt the same way. I want to draw her room. It tells stories. All that stuff in boxes and bags. She is trying to shape a life from that chair. It is admirable. Admirable.
