The shared studio is one big room with three easels, a kettle and a sofa that has been slept on.

Rosa works late with her hearing aids out, so the room is silent except for the brush.

You learn to wave rather than call. You learn that her whole body talks when she is painting.

Ada's notebook fills up faster than anyone's sketchbook. She writes in the corridor because the light is better and the bench is warm.

By November you have three people you do not have to explain yourself to.

That is the most dangerous thing that has happened to you in a year.