Clayman's mother goes through an Impressionist phase.
"You'll have to come back later," she says, peering up at the visitors. "Mother is in her impressionist phase."
The clients look confused for a moment, mutter reverently amongst themselves about how mysterious Mother is, and leave.
Ascending the stairs, she smells turpentine and wonders who Mother is channelling today. (She has come to love the paintings, even if she hated them once because they took Mother away from her for hours and hours at a time. She hasn't inherited any of Mother's talents, but Mother doesn't think less of her for it.)
She opens the door and sees only the glorious sunset.
Then she realises that she is not looking out the window, but is looking at her mother's latest canvas.
Mother turns around and smiles-not-like-herself and waves-not-like-herself. (Mother-like-herself rarely ever smiles.)
"Sunset Over the Tenements," Mother says in a voice-that-is-not-her-own. "I never had this kind of view before."
She nods silently and studies the painting for a few moments.
(For her, life is art and art is life and life is art and even if she can't give herself over to the great painters so that they can work through her, she can at least know everything that there is to know about them.)
She smiles and sits at the feet of Monet-who-is-not-Monet. "It's amazing."
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