Each fine delineation, etched with care, remained visual over time, but the once deep palette of colour is now bleached and faded.
The portraiture remains unchanged, yet its shape has morphed. Fine lines have deepened into the canvass.
Many have held the canvass: admiring, caressing, stroking, but now fear holding it. They might impair its fragility, damage the pale, fading lines.
But it is held, gently, tenderly, cautiously, by those who love it still.
My withered, arthritic, venous hand with a portrait of life painted on its back.