I started again; where everything starts:
at the body. Classes in life-drawing,
training my hand to see.
In Paris alone,
my family waiting for me to give up
so I could go back to being "happy."
Every day, failure boiled up into my throat
and stayed there.
.
Obsession is the sacrifice of light
to the richness of submergence.
But love is separation,
the membrane of the orange dividing itself,
the surface of silver
that turns glass into a mirror.
There's failure in every choice.
Art emerged from silence;
silence, from one's place in the world.
~Anne Michaels from "Modersohn - Becker"

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