The trouble with Shakespeare is that you never, never know what he’s talking about. Not exactly. You can read the same play over and over again, and each time it’s going to be about something else…
Is King Lear just a fairytale gone wrong? Is it about failing to accept death, as Freud claims? Is it about old age? Is it about the stupidity of being honest? Is it about fathers? Or, knowing Shakespeare, is it about all of these and much more?
Oil Pastels on Cardboard