Author: Søren Vinther | Date: 3 March
I was hired to draw her from an old wartime photo. But I’ve lost control.
Each stroke I make becomes something else. The painting bleeds. She appears behind me in the studio, never in the same pose.
Last night, I painted someone who looks like Ulrik—mouth sewn shut. I’ve never met Ulrik.
I think the painting remembers. Not me. Her.