They went on talking about whether Penelope considered herself more of an artist or a teacher, what she had been working on lately. She explained that she was neither, really; she hadn’t painted for more than a decade, not since art school, but lately she had been drawing things she could see from her window. Art could never be her career, but drawing was an impulse, as recurrent, old, and automatic as breathing, except she had chosen to need it.
10 or 5 years? How much time has passed?
