The village girl is her own Muse. She shapeshifts into every painted circumstance. When she needs to know a hand, she studies her own. Canvased old man by a chair needs to stand crooked with a back broken – she curls herself like aluminium foil and examines how the spine sticks out like a dragon. When she needs the right shade for blood she finds a drawing pin and pricks her skin then goes to drown her pencil. Her studio is filthy and natural. Catatonic with everything you’d never find in any other space. Human trophies, all her own remains. Smells and colours she cannot be evicted for. Her left pinkie lies in a paper towel on the floor.