My mother's favourite novel was To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. I listened to it this week while doing these dye processes. There it was - her picture. Yes, with all its greens and blues, its lines running up and across, its attempt at something. It would be hung in the attic, she thought; it would be destroyed. But what did that matter? With a sudden intensity,
as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre.It was done; It was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue,
I have had my vision.
(from the last paragraph of To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf)