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It’s the photographs I can’t stop thinking about: tiny little black-and-white shots, in the back garden and by a brick wall, always outside, where the light was good (when the light wasn’t good enough, she wouldn’t paint). Dorothy Hepworth, dark bob never hanging much lower than her ears, next to the paintings she signed with her lover’s name. Patricia Preece, the woman whose name graced the canvases, was behind the lens.
Here it is, the smoking gun. Proof that the two women didn’t want their rouse to be secret forever; that one day they would be hanging in a gallery for all to see: a love story they could never speak of while they were both alive.