I see a picture behind glass: silvered sheet halo, eyes raging indigo and kindling fires that catch the falling angel, wings failing, spun air and gold. I feel the artist's hand exposed in tiny details: lives and faces, forgotten faces in distant crowds. Touches of illuminating flame bring a second's grace, floating. I believe there is light concealed trapped by pigment, egg-bound colouring the image, the purity of mother and child made a lie, mere creation, flesh and wood.