The Waves, Kew Gardens, The Voyage Out; her writing as though carving out her own destiny; the
details of her fragile beginning, the cloister of her artistic life and friendships, her watery death.

They are archetype; over-identified, lacking in breathing space, like her drowning. And still the
word 'ethereal' springs to mind, defined 'extremely delicate (especially in an unnatural way;
ethereal being, ethereal beauty) in a way that seems not of this world... floaty, sheer, weightless'
And here the paradox; she is Wolf, long-faced, woody, heavy furnishings, dark green velvet
curtains, brocade upholstery, unopened windows, stifled slightly spooky-looking plants. Her
disappearance is tangible in her confinement to a 'room of one's own' and then the polarity; lost in
the watery ether where there is sensory perception, texture and observation, but absent of ground,
holding, a truly listening ear. Genius and yet smothered by her past, her perfectionism, her
exquisite attention to detail drowned by an innate lack of trust in self or other.