Last modified on Sun 14 Mar 2021 11.28 EDT
In 2019, the Royal Academy staged an exhibition by the great Finnish painter Helene Schjerfbeck. On the day I saw it, the galleries were preternaturally quiet â the crowds who are so mad for Frida Kahlo seem not to have heard of Schjerfbeck â and in the room where the curators had hung 17 of her self-portraits, a time-lapse sequence dating from 1884 to 1946, I was amazed to find myself entirely alone. Only I wasnât, not really. She was all around. Schjerfbeckâs colours are often mossy, shades of grey-green that bring to mind not only nature at its lushest, but also gravestones, mottled and cold to the touch. In the spectral hush, I saw a woman first grow into herself, then move beyond that self â as death tiptoed ever closer, the self-portraits grew ever more abstract â and it was indescribably strengthening. I could have taken on anyone that day. An unseen presence had sprayed courage on my wrists.