That is, in the middle of a second Covid lockdown in Edinburgh, while freshly fatherless, having had the last images of my dad, my last words to him, shunted through the light of a laptop screen, in a time when such virtually distanced dying was happening en masse, as I filmed a eulogy for the online funeral, separated by an ocean’s length from my mom and sisters, and unwrapped wax paper parcels of fresh bread sent from our friends Moss & Rosa who couldn’t come sit inside with us, it wasn’t The Tower (Upheaval) or The Hermit (Isolation) or even The Star (Healing) whose page I kept open on my desk. It was the one canvas Carrington covered totally in golden foil, ‘Number XIX: The Sun’ (Joy).