I open one of Jenny’s art books and I read about artists who had affairs with their subjects like Hockney and a couple of other names that I haven’t heard of before. I look closely at a painting by Munch called Jealousy that he painted in 1895. The haunted eyes of Stanisław Przybyszewski catch me off guard. They are arresting. I learn that Przybyszewski was a Polish writer and a friend of Munch’s. His wife modelled for Munch and Munch had an affair with her. Munch, it seems, was obsessed with jealousy and came back to the theme again and again in his paintings. There is something in Przybyszewski’s eyes that I recognize in myself.

I get up from Jenny’s desk, it is time for a cup of tea.

15. Group Show

May 2017

I am aware that Jenny holds Simon Thompson from Gallery One in high regard. He’s been at the centre of the Dublin art scene for over twenty years. And right now she’s putting a lot of her faith in him. I hope she’s not expecting miracles. I know that he’s promising her this break but there’s nothing worse than blatant desperation. There’s an article about him in the newspaper in the weekend supplement. Jenny is doing that irritating thing she does of insisting on reading something that she finds interesting aloud.

Simon Thompson, owner of Gallery One, speaks of twenty years in business, she reads.

I tell Jenny that I am well aware of this fact because she never stops going on about how great he is. I wonder how he can still have the same enthusiasm. On the other hand maybe I’m just frightened because I’m becoming increasingly aware of how quickly the years are going. I think about the longevity of some of my connections and it makes me feel old.

I’m making pasta for the kids – fusilli and I’m stirring in a cheese sauce that doesn’t look that appetizing but I persist with it. Jenny stops reading and I stop stirring my sauce. This is probably a good thing as it is beginning to stick anyhow. This often happens when I attempt to create a full-blown meal from what is essentially a roux. Jenny puts the paper down on the kitchen table and goes to her desk. She starts to dot small amounts of oils on to her battered artist’s palette. Orange and black and red. I sense that she’s going to paint an angry sea, a furious sea caught out in its rage just before sunrise. Because this truly is the most beautiful time of all in which to witness the promise of the brilliance of the sun and the savagery of the water.

Is that it? I ask her.