In Taipei, my disengagement with the silk scrolls wasn’t random. It was learned.
Morisot’s paintings of women up close lined the walls, a pastel perspective at vanity tables and in gardens. My breath rushed in: beautiful.
My mother described the Rembrandt paintings as her friends. I'd never heard anyone talk about art that way, instilling it with something like a personhood of its own.
I had not been erased by the violence I’d suffered, but was changed by it. A new, difficult layer had been added to my life.