There is a picture I should like to paint. I see it sometimes in my mind’s eye, when I lie awake at night unable to sleep, or in the early morning as the light circles the walls, before the rest of the house stirs. Sometimes it stares back at me as I gaze into the fire, or I catch glimpses of it lodged in the trees as I walk through the garden. In the painting we are seated on opposite sides of a table. Next to me is a child in a highchair—Thoby, perhaps. Next to you is a figure I always assume must be Father. Mother presides. Though she has her back to us her profile is clearly visible. The reason I do not try to paint this portrait is that it is never still. While it always contains the same elements—you, me, the child in the highchair, the two adults—they constantly rearrange themselves. Sometimes the alterations are so great that one of the figures disappears altogether. This happens most particularly with Mother, perhaps because of her prominence in the design. Whenever she is absent I take her place. It is as if there is a mysterious force at work, so that whenever the shape that designates Mother vanishes, my own form changes to fill the space. I can do nothing to prevent this movement. I know in some obscure part of myself that if I try to block it the space will engulf the entire picture. I realize that my function in the painting is to stop this from happening. I am simultaneously inside the portrait, a mark on the canvas, and outside it, the artist. Sometimes you are an ally in the picture, sometimes a child that requires protection; sometimes your proximity is a threat. Whenever your opposition becomes too powerful I have no choice but to deploy all the weapons at my disposal to force your retreat. Yet I cannot risk losing you altogether. While other parts of the painting emerge and recede without disaster, you are necessary to its equilibrium.

I tell no one of this nightmare haunting. I do what I can to keep it at bay. I decorate round it with figures and flowers, landscapes, abstract patterns. Occasionally, as I contemplate the images, I suspect that the void may not be so terrifying, and I am tempted to examine it more closely. Yet something holds me back. I fear that the impression is an illusion, a chimera designed to lure me into oblivion, which I must resist at all costs.