Category Archives: Assignment 3

Assignment 3 – review


Family Album – an exercise in Not Knowing.

Early on in the project I knew I wanted to make a book and that it would contain paintings of my childhood family.  I was hoping to discover new things about myself and my feelings, at the same time as discovering new ways of painting and making.  But further than that I really didn’t know what I was doing or what I was going to do, and it was at this point I had to find a balance between planning and intuition.

What this work, my Family Album, will mean to others clearly will not be the same as it means to me – others can read into it their own interpretations, but when I step back from it and try to see what I’ve made, I can see quite a difference between what I intended at the outset and what the work eventually became.  Gary Hume says in discussing paintings of his mum which he recently made, that he made an unexpected discovery:   “I thought I was making paintings of my mum, but it turned out quite quickly that it’s all about me.  I haven’t really given her her own identity. It is absolutely my mum from my eyes, from my emotional standpoint.” (

I’ve made a book of paintings about my family that’s also about myself, a book with many layers both physical and of meaning and time.  The book is to be handled, the pages turned, the textures felt, to capture the relationship between sight and touch.

Here is the book I made.

I did a certain amount of planning; making a mock-up of a book, planning the supports and subject matter of each page, trying out staining and printing on various supports.  I had an idea I would layer paintings and incorporate script in a deliberate way.

I looked at other artists books.   Paul Gauguin made a journal incorporating his handwriting, watercolours (often using monotype processes) and woodblock.  I felt the watercolour medium was both bold and colourful and very delicately used in these paintings from his Noa Noa journal. Often his subjects were lightly drawn with line before adding colour wash.  I liked the way he incorporated script, sometimes surrounding, at other times topping and tailing his subject, or layered underneath.

I knew I’d been surprised in the earlier exercises as I worked with my materials and unexpected things happened, and this sense of surprise cropped up again and again as I worked on.  These things threw me and altered my course, into unforeseen directions. I layered paintings in unexpected ways – gluing and stitching supports, layering time – combining portraits and other materials from different eras. I incorporated stitch and collage; I linked portraits with a golden thread; script became unclear, present but confused and faded.  I thought of using papers which have a history.  Sian Bowen uses fragments cut from old wallpapers, letters and documents; I wanted to incorporate old household accounts, humdrum business printouts, poems and letters, but without  altering or destroying the originals.

My materials, processes and the book-form threw many challenges at me, giving rise to difficulties and doubts.  I was encountering the unknown.  Monotype printing and painting on silk, canvas, thin semi-transparent fabric-like papers, and highly absorbent surpports, all was unpredictable despite many sketchbook tryouts.  Processes were equally challenging.  Whether burnishing printed script onto fabrics and thin papers, or staining liquid pigment onto raw textiles, the results were never quite what I’d been aiming for.  The form of my project, a book, (size 25cm high and 17.5cm wide), presented criteria and limitations that I had to work with, each page being one half of a support, the reverse of which was as important as the front.

Selecting subject matter was another area of not knowing.  I had a plethora of material, and had to focus on those things that best expressed my memories and feelings. I also had to allow myself to be led by my materials; it was no good trying to paint a detailed portrait on raw textiles for instance.  Each day I left more sketches, tryouts, photos and old papers lying around in my studio to come back to, and continued working with them in sight.

I became engrossed in the process of printing, drawing and painting these portraits, handling, stitching, embellishing and layering the pages of my growing book, while becoming more deeply immersed in memories, imagination and feeling.  I was reluctant to bring the project to a close, knowing there wouldn’t be a final resolution.  As I advanced towards the final pages I found lost memories, forgotten dreams and new meanings, and a new awareness of the me I became ; and my paintings became less literal and more expressive.


I’ll now go on to explain some of the sketchbook work I did to support this project, how I developed my ideas, and how I painted the portraits



On Not Knowing, by Rebecca Fortnum, 2009


Assignment 3 – developing ideas


It was clear early on in part 3 that I wanted my old family photographs, rediscovered through a long lost relative, to form the starting point for my assignment series.  The exchange of our family history has grown in recent weeks.  From having next to nothing I now have a store of photos from the late 19th century up to the 1970s, an extensive family tree, a new family of relatives through my cousin, and now renewed contact with a childhood family friend who forms a strong unbroken link to my mother.

My interest in this family archive material has also been kindled by reading Walter Benjamin’s Archive, and seeing how he valued highly a wide range of material, some lofty, some quite prosaic, and how he carefully arranged the appearance of pages, as well as their content, to look ‘right’.

There are so many photos, but I want to focus on my parents and my brother and sisters.  As my thoughts continued down this path I remembered I had some documents tucked away for years; some handwritten poems by my father; some written on the back of his employer’s stock sheets; a book of family accounts, handwritten by my parents; and some handwritten letters of condolences on the death of my mother and my father’s replies .

I feel these photos, poems and letters define who I am more than anything else; they witness the catastrophe of my mother’s death in 1966, and my father’s response to it, leading to the disconnection of our family.  There is an insightful article in The Guardian here, describing the effects of traumatic loss on families.

So my portraits will be of Mum, Dad and the children.  In some way I’d like them to reflect the memories;  my mother’s light; the happy togetherness of the family before the death; the loneliness as we each grieved in our different ways – and how we all became different because of it.



There will therefore be many portraits in this project, and I want the fervent poems and letters, and the humdrum old household accounts and business papers to form part of the work.  As my tutor suggested in my part 2 report, why not have writing as background, aligned systematically and deliberately with the paintings.  All this might suggest a multi part work, maybe even 3d.  I toyed with the idea of a book – intended to be handled – or a cardboard box theatre stage with layers of moveable scenery and curtains; or a dolls house; or if a book, with pop-up elements, like a child’s storybook.  All of these are connected with elements of our early family life of reading and childhood play.

I could make one book documenting the family growing together and then later apart, or three separate books, representing mum, dad and the children, each made with materials that reflect them as individuals; so my mum’s love of fabrics and dressmaking would be reflected by using a dress fabric support; my dad’s love of sailing by using canvas.  I could explore how painting processes, including materials and supports, can work in tandem with subject matter.

On reflection i thought the theatre, dolls house and pop up book ideas, may prove too complex to develop in an assignment context, while a simple book – call it a Family Album – seemed to connect organically with the idea of documenting a period of life in a family history.


Supports and processes

As well as their connections with fabric, both my parents loved paper in its various uses; for reading the bible, poems and  literature; as a support for drawing and for writing poems, stories and notes of everyday observations.  My tutor suggested using cloth and different papers in my work.  I had some lengths of silk and Irish linen and other fabrics, left over from my days of dressmaking and embroidery, which I could try as painting support for pages of my book.  I found a supplier of Japanese papers and ordered some Kozo (Mulberry) and other handmade Japanese papers, which are fine, light and natural looking with lovely soft edges and slightly irregular but smooth surfaces, one delicate 10g Kozo reminiscent of dressmakers interfacing, light, gauzy and semi transparent.

Oil and watercolour will be used. The fabrics, and maybe the papers, will be very absorbent, and I could use this property to soak and stain the support, trying to work loosely and experimentally. I have to decide how to use the semi transparent supports, maybe layering them over another paintings on a more opaque support (I’d already played with this idea in the exercises) and think about how to compose the colours, tones and subjects of these.

See my post here to follow my experiments in soak-staining, monotype and other processes for painting with oil and watercolour on these fabrics and delicate papers.

The script of my fathers poems and letters will be a crucial part of the work.  I can’t use the documents themselves as artefacts; I have to find a way to transfer his handwriting to my painting supports without damaging the originals, and to use passages or extracts deliberately in the background or foreground or in the margins of paintings, in such a way that the script is integral to the portrait, so that the two are inter-connected.

See my post here to follow my experiments and development of a process for transferring script to fabric and paper supports using my inkjet printer.


Book making

The process of putting together a book is completely unknown to me at this stage – how to cut and fold the pages, how to make a cover, how to bind it, how to fasten it.  I have to consider the back of each page – paint will soak through the supports, more or less, and this may or may not be wanted as part of the book.  I made a mock-up based on a handmade notebook that caught my eye on a crafts stall last year.  This seemed to work, so i made a larger trial version with more pages.

The book is a good size for my Family Album, 25×35 cm.  Bound by stitch and string, the cover has a wrap around flap and is fastened simply by string.  I like the fragile, simple look of it, and the way the pages, alternate leaves of fine paper and fabric, turn.

I considered what support I’d use and the painting I’d make for each page, and made a rough list as a starting point, although I was feeling my way along and knew my ideas would change as the work progressed.  Then I started on the first portrait.

Soak stain experiments on fabric

I wanted to see if I could make progress with using fabric as a painting support, having done a little of this in part 2.    Connected with this, reviewing my part 2 paintings with melting ice, and commenting on the ‘lightness of the pigments and the way the unpredictable is invited’ my tutor recommended looking at Helen Frankenthaler’s work with staining and bleeding.

I looked at both her paintings and her woodcuts.  The paintings are made with very thin paint – oils thinned with turpentine, and later acrylics thinned with water – on unprimed canvas, producing luminous colour washes.  Her compositions are abstract, based almost entirely on colour, although titles she gives to individual paintings suggest an objective inspiration (often the landscape). Is good as an introduction to her work.

(  quotes  Frankenthaler as saying ‘you have to know how to use the accident, how to recognise it, how to control it, and ways to eliminate it so that the whole surface looks felt and born all at once’.  This is particularly true in the case of soak stain, where pigment flows and spreads unpredictably.

The same web site states that ‘Determination is an essential characteristic of the artist whose work evolves from experimentation.’  This seems particularly true in the case of Frankenthaler’s work in woodcuts, where she and her team collaborated to push her creative limits, and those of the technique, to produce painterly prints that look as fluid and spontaneous as any of her paintings.

‘A really good picture looks as if it’s happened at once. It’s an immediate image…one really beautiful wrist motion that is synchronised with your head and heart, and you have it, and therefore it looks as if it were born in a minute’  Helen Frankenthaler, quoted in


One of my ideas for assignment 3 submission is to use fabric as support for a portrait – whether it will work I’m not sure,but I started by experimenting with painting thinned watercolour washes onto swatches of various fabrics (cotton, linen, iron-on dressmaker’s interfacing), some raw, others coated with acrylic gel medium, pva glue, and gesso, and made notes in my sketchbook.  I found that the dilute washes spread and flow long after application, so that what looks like an interestingly loose, but readable portrait can disappear into paint which is still flowing and spreading as it dries. I admit to feeling disheartened, as though I were groping in the dark and getting nowhere. I didn’t even really know how I might be able to incorporate this approach in my assignment portraits.   Determination was definitely needed to continue down this avenue.   It seems painting in a loose and spontaneous way on unprimed fabric needs to be tempered by experience and careful control over the amount of pigmented water applied, if the outcome is to be at all defined (as opposed to completely blurred and merged).


I have a length of embroidery silk, a tightly woven, fine, semi-transparent fabric, which I could paint on and which might combine interestingly as a layer over another painting.  I tried monoprinting onto the fabric from a glass plate, using thinned oil paint, and produced an ethereal, ghost-like portrait which looked promising (bottom right).  I mounted a couple of the swatches into my sketchbook over handwritten text



In the exercises for Part 2 I had taken a ghost print of my uncle on semi-transparent tissue paper; I tried laying this over other portraits to see what would emerge.

This looks effective ; the colours – red on top, blue beneath – combine to make a rich shade of purple; the portraits are partly offset , so you can read each one separately and the two together (another way of achieving clarity while blending images could be to combine ahead and shoulders portrait with a figure, i.e. images on different scales); thereplentyof negative space in each of the compositions, so the blended image isn’t too busy.  

This experiment showed me that to mount a painting on a semi-transparent support over another painting and/or text, the top painting’s composition would need to incorporate unpainted, or flat, thinly-washed passages, to allow the lower layer to be at all readable.  The subjects of the two should be on a different scale so as not to confuse the eye.  Also the effect of different colours and tones on the physical layers blending optically would need to be considered.   How this could work for my Family Album isn’t clear to me yet, but im quite excited by the possibilities, and possible meanings – the example above combines the mother and the son, when they were each in their early twenties, so spans time and generations.


Using script in painting


The genesis of the idea of using hand-written old family documents in my assignment 3 portraits is explained here.

In part 1 I introduced script into a painting, extracts from the words of flamenco song, written in my own hand.  My tutor then introduced me to the work of Mona Hatoum, who also incorporates script, layered with video photography and voice in her work, recalling her younger self and her relationship with her mother.

I collaged text into the background of one of my part 2 paintings, and my tutor wrote ‘There is scope with aligning script … systematically and deliberately with layers of paint’ – tutor feedback, Part 2. 

In Sian Bowen’s work Ream, the artist uses her paper support as a surface which she folds, stiffens and stains.  Some of her source material includes hand-written letters, and also brings together a range of images, some imagined, from various moments in time.  The viewer must try and piece together what is happening.  Part of her body of work, Nova Zembla, comprises script from found documents juxtaposed with her drawings, and made into a series of artist’s books as evidence of a story.  Again in After Hortus Malabaricus, Bowen incorporates script alongside images in her work.  One quality these works seem to me to gave in common is how the inclusion of script from bygone times endows a feeling of the passing of ages.  In my work for my assignment, by juxtaposing portraits of my subjects as they were decades ago, with script made by their own hand in that same long ago time, I might try to evoke fading memories of people, their story and their feelings.

My aim was therefore to find processes which would allow me to transfer script to various painting supports, including fabric.  I didn’t want to damage or directly use the the original pages in the process, so decided I’d have to photograph them and then print facsimiles on to the painting supports.Through much trial and error I found ways of achieving my aim, developing some useful processes as described below.  At the same time my ideas developed; from the concept of a poem or letter as a simple background layer in a portrait, to it maybe being a physically separate layer, veiled by a transparent painting; to using extracts, and deliberately blurring, jumbling and confusing script in a painting; to integrating the script through the face or figure, not just in the surrounding background.



My first experiment (below, top left) with printing on to fabric involved adhering a piece of calico to the shiny side of a piece of butchers paper, by applying heat with an iron, typing a bit of text into my computer, and then running the laminated support through my inkjet printer.  The process worked well, but I realised I’d be limited to A4 or smaller, and wouldn’t have the ability to play easily with how and where the text was printed on the support.

I wanted my dad’s actual handwriting, not typed text, so I took a photo of a page and loaded it into Photoshop Elements.  I hadn’t used the software before, but I managed to work out how to adjust contrast and flip the image so it would come out the right way round after burnishing.  More tricky was learning how to get rid of the background (crinkly paper shadows) and change the colour of the script, but I found this described on a photoshop forum.

I thought I’d try inkjet-printing onto the shiny side of the waxed paper, rather than directly onto the painting support, and then hand-burnishing the resulting print onto my support.  My first trial with a piece of calico (above, top right) was very encouraging.  I tried laying a watercolour wash over the printed script and that took well, with no smudging.  I had another go on a piece of Kozo paper, and that burnished very well too.  It blurred a little with a water wash, so maybe I’d consider laying script over a portrait rather than printing it as a lower layer.  I loved the look of the script combined with fabric and fabric-like paper, and watercolour wash, and I felt quite excited about the direction I was going in.  The burnishing process would allow me to print the script and parts of the script directly onto the painting support, where and how I wanted them, very easily.

A trial on more loosely woven linen (above, lower half of page) was very hard work to burnish so I tried dampening the fabric and this time more ink transferred, but then started to bleed into the dampness.  Also, as I hand burnished the fabric stretched and moved easily.  I though maybe I could stiffen the fabric with a soaking of acrylic medium before printing; also a couple of layers of tissue laid over the support before burnishing, together with slow, patient work, helps a lot to reduce movement.


My inkjet-printed hand-burnished trial on silk (below, bottom sample) had similar results.  Then I tried using the trace monotype technique to see what would happen.  I laid the silk over the inked plate, and a print on copy paper of the text over that.  Then with a biro I laboriously traced the script by hand.  The impression on the silk is quite strong; it’s difficult to control the quality of the line and background smudges and blips are inevitable.  The swatch is interesting though; a short, puzzling extract of script, more jumbled and confused script in the background, perhaps alluding to a state of mind, or befuddled communication.


Hand-burnishing inkjet script onto both dry and dampened linen, pre-coated with acrylic medium.  Adding quick watercolour stains in the form of simple portraits, below. I like how the script runs through the portrait, it seems integrated with it.


Inkjet script hand-burnished onto photocopy paper.  10g semi-transparent Kozo stained with a simple portrait, laid on top.  The layers partly glued together with a bic water-based glue stick where the script can be seen more clearly (top left). 

Fruit-wrapping tissue paper  (below right).



Trace monoprint experiments

The trace monoprint technique has been used by artists to make drawings.  A plate is inked, and a sheet of paper placed on it.  On to that a found image, photo or sketch is placed, and this is traced with some sort of stylus.

Line quality and tonal values can be altered by:-

  • Using wetter or drier paint (different colours can be mixed on the plate, or the trace process can be done in separate stages, each employing a different colour)
  • varying pressure,
  • using different line-making tools – the harder and thinner, the finer the line (hard thin pencil, biro).  Shading and tonal passages can be created by using a heavier, broader tool
  • using smooth, hard, thin paper or softer, thicker, textured paper.

Trace monotypes stand as drawings on their own, but also make good underdrawings for adding paint or other media (Degas would often add pastel to monotypes).

Paul Klee‘s The Twitter Machine is a trace monotype on a watercolour wash, and I can see an open and fresh variety of line, and subtle textures where ink has transferred, perhaps inadvertently, due to irregular pressure on the back of the sheet.

I just watched “Klee, Twittering Machine” on Khan Academy


Paul Gaugin‘s trace monotypes also have rich textures and varieties of line, in the process acquiring a diffuse atmosphere and a look of age.  Two Marquesans is an example.  He has transferred areas of ink, or perhaps washed some of them in directly, and on to these some traced marks and lines and energy to the drawing.


I made some experimental marks in my sketchbook and then traced a magazine image, followed by part of an old family photo traced onto rough watercolour paper, which accentuated textures and broke shading down into a stippled effect

The family portrait has a certain charm – facial expressions, simply done, are intent and slightly belligerent!  Shaded background was done with light finger pressure.  Shading of the father achieved with marks made with a finer, harder tool, would have been more effective if I’d given more thought to making the marks describe form instead of just ‘shading in’.

Later I added loose watercolour washes to two of the traced monotypes


This has been an encouraging experiment for me, and i can see the potential for using trace monotype in combination with loose, flat wash in watercolour or other thinned medium.  The process could be imagined on a thin, semi-transparent support such as silk or lightweight kozi paper, with the resulting painting being laid down over another, stronger painting done on a more solid support.



Assignment 3 – making the portraits

For the first page inside the cover of my Family Album I made a portrait of my father as a young boy, on gossamer thin semi-transparent 10gm Japanese Kozo paper. At the bottom, I printed an extract from his poem ‘Dear Mum, or Growing Pains’

Some sketches of the boy helped me observe him and commit the lines to mind.   I used a process of drawing the main lines with thinned oil paint on a glass plate, transferring them to the sketchbook page, and completing the portrait in watercolour wash. When I repeated the process on the kozo paper the watercolour washes soaked straight in, but the oil lines formed a barrier to them spreading completely, allowing me some control.

For the second page I printed the whole poem (Dear Mum, a poem about dad coming of age and needing to spread his wings and leave home) on waxed paper and burnished it on to Japanese 36 gm  Kitakata, a smooth shiny surface, then over that I made an oil monotype seated figure portrait of him as a young man, sailing a boat.  The last lines of the same poem also appear at the bottom of the Boy portait.

The reverse side of the kozo was an almost exact mirror image of the front, the pigment having soaked straight through.  This unexpectedly gave two views – the first, the man seen through the veil of the boy’s portrait; the second, viewing the two side by side when page 1 was turned.

The reverse of the kitakata was unappealing with splotches of paint soaked through at random – I would think about that and return to it.  Later – I machine-printed and hand-burnished ‘The Rose of the Bud’, over which I painted a rosebud in watercolour.

Page 3 started as a monoprint in oils with added paint on a silk support, made from an image of my mother entering her wedding car, dad standing behind to help her.  The silk worked in tandem with the subject, reminiscent of her wedding dress, but the oils became messy and felt inappropriate for the delicate support and subject.  So I rejected it and in its place I made a free-flowing abstract representation of the same image, again on washed silk, but this time in watercolour.  I ironed the piece of silk dry before painting, and a happy accident resulted in it wrinkling with the heat; the texture in the gold painted area looks beautiful. I stitched this piece of silk with gold embroidery silk onto the back of 10g kozo, onto which I printed ‘Love Blue Sky’, an ecstatic expression of the beauty and longing Dad felt contemplating the sky.

My book was now started and I felt encouraged but fearful too.  The plan of pages, media, subject, support etc was complex, and I could see I’d need to be prepared to change and adapt the plan as the book grew.  Id need to work on more than one page at a time, particularly in selecting and weaving the script around the images.  I’d also need to respond to the unexpected as I was using unfamiliar supports.  I’d also want to respond to my own feelings and ideas for expressing them.


On the fourth  page, on 40gm Kozo, a head and shoulders oil monotype portrait of my mother as a happy young woman, sailing, the sea green behind her, was made simply, with very light pigment washes, and an extract from the poem ‘In the Sunny Air’.  Her eyes and smile are bright and open.  She appears even lighter but perfectly on the reverse side, where she is juxtaposed with a head and shoulders of my dad on page 5, monoprinted and painted  on stiffened linen, like the canvas of the sails he handled.

This portrait of my mum is veiled with a piece of washed silk, stained blue and yellow, and printed with a sweet and touching, but faded letter my dad sent home to her from Scotland, where he’d been sent by his employer to train some customers.  Life at this time seems light, simple and happy, finding joy in each other and their small children.  The silk is stiched on to the mulberry paper with a gold metallic thread which I’ve taken through and linked to the portrait of my dad.


Page 6 is a three quarter figure of my mum with my older sister and me.  The 10g kozo is laid onto Japanese Shiramine onto the from of which is printed a stock parts list and cost sheet from my dad’s employer.  On the other side of the Shiramine is a facsimile of a page from my mum’s housekeeping accounts.  Money was tight and everything had to be planned and itemised – ‘Jane, skirt; Helen, vests; Potatoes’ – to the last penny.  Over the household accounts I’ve pasted a piece of watercolour-stained tissue paper – a fruit wrapper – with abstract blobs of light pigment – evoking a landscape – and overprinted with ‘Around me Lie the South Downs’.  The poem isn’t really legible, but we can catch glimpses of odd words; more important to me was the look of the page, with its loose, flowing coloured stains, and the closely packed script.


Page 7 is blank, except for the inclusions in the Japanese Mango paper, and a curl of gold thread.  On the reverse (page 8) is the centre spread of the book, a trace monoprint of us four sisters, before our brother came along.  We are sweet, open, happy, direct; we felt secure, as if nothing in our world could or would change.  The golden thread that linked us all appears again, and is taken through to a small portrait of my brother, running towards mum with outstretched arms; the thread continues, linked to her too (page 9).  Her portrait is a watercolour monotype, made by painting on a Perspex plate and transferring to damp paper when the original painting was dry.  On the reverse of page 9, in the ghost image of my mother’s portrait, the thread ends, the link is broken.  She dies a few months later.

Here starts my dad’s fervent spiritual/religious response, expressed in his letters and poems,  and our, his children’s, bemusement and isolation, as he outlaws our grief, sublimating Stella’s death into ‘the most wonderful experience of my life’.  Maybe it was a necessary survival strategy; with sole responsibility for five children, he may have felt we couldn’t afford the luxury of grief.

On page 10 is another portrait of my dad on canvas, more sombre, gaunt and hollow-eyed.  It’s how I saw him at that time, rather than being based on a photographic likeness.  Under the semi-transparent painting, an extract from a letter to his yoga guru, Iyengar,  written in the days after Stella’s death.

The following months became dark and lonely in my memories of the time.  Page 11 has a portrait of the family the next springtime on a bluebell-picking outing. I’ve been strongly influenced by Laura Lancaster’s work while making this series of paintings; like many of hers, it is a portrait made from a photo of a group – in this case the whole family.  What should be a painting full of light pleasure looks dark and confused with an atmosphere of anxiety.  Dad is isolated, standing tall as a pillar behind his subdued, seated brood of five; he must have been struggling, trying to establish a new family dynamic, to hold his family together by willpower.

On the back of the family portrait is pasted a sheet of script and pigment, a poem that links with the very very faint one on page 12, and with the portrait of me with my mum on page 13.  This is something new I’ve learned while making this book; that for many years, decades even, after the death, I had a repeating occasional dream of being alone (by the sea) with another person.  That person loved me unconditionally.  I’d wake up feeling deeply calm and whole.  It was no romantic love, as I thought, but my mother in the dream, with her hand on my shoulder.  This is my favourite portrait of the book, a reminder.

That should’ve been the end of the book, but I kept going to fill the last pages, with portraits of my sisters and me.  The four sisters lineup is influenced by Eleanor Moreton’s ‘Sisters’, with a similar composition, although her sisters are happy and carefree, and of course in monochrome.   At the end, printed on stained silk and fixed inside back cover, the last poem, ‘She is my Helm’

Finally I bound and stitched my book.