When Joe looks at one of Kerewin's self-portraits, she explains:
"These are the only things in my life that are real to me now. Not people. Joe. Not relationships. Not families. Paintings. That remind me I could."
She is sliding them back behind the desk, screamers and mysteries and the weeping loving pieces of her sea and land. She holds out her hand for the self-portrait.
"But something. Something has died. Isn't there now. I can't paint." There are tears in her voice, but none in her eyes. "I am dead inside" (Keri Hulme, The Bone People, NY, Penguin, 1986, p. 264).
Does Kerewin's status as an artist, which bears obvious autobiographical meaning, render her more or less isolated? more or less a Maori?
Last Modified: 15 March, 2002