Hisfather stood naked, spread-eagled, in the center of the room,manacled at his wrists and ankles with padded leather cuffs. Thecuffs, in turn, were s...ap-clipped to chains attached to eye bolts setin the ceiling and floor. His mother was dressed in a skintight,shiny black latex catsuit and knee-high black patent boots withtowering stiletto heels. Her face was heavily made up, her hairseverely styled, and she wielded a long, thin, flexible leather crop-like object. He overheard her referring to. ‘But why do you do it? I know it is art.’ ‘I paint because it is art,’ he persisted, ‘art is the most immediate way to become close to others. Every stroke of paint, tells you who the person was, or what they felt or what they knew, anything and everything about them.’ ‘You sound so sure,’ I though back to the forest, and it saddened me. Perhaps I never knew him, the one I loved. I had never seen his art, there had never been a stroke of colour on his cheek to see. There was nothing to see. . More

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