It has happened again. This time in my right shoulder. A slow, painful adhesion that defies predicative logic and ensures that I pay full attention to every detail of physical movement.

I am in Lisbon – a beautiful city of patchwork pavements and majestic decay – far from the white walls of the consulting room where relief awaits. I am visiting, teaching drawing to students whose aspirations reach beyond economic constraints. Within the white walls of the life studio I elucidate the human form; axial and appendicula, construction, gesture. I sense the irony as the stiffness in my arm becomes a parody of the sweeping movement of charcoal across toothy paper.

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