“Anyone can be an artist,” croaks the voice of an old woman whose English accent sounds like it’s been ground down by time. She goes on to recount the simplicity of art; you draw something, and someone else likes it and they buy it. Woven into this discussion is another, with a sound quality that suggests it was taken from a pre-digital age film, in which a man’s voice ponders suicide. The first voice is Vannessa Rossetto’s late mother, and one might suppose that the second narrator is a stand-in for Rossetto, since the next track commences with mom reacting with dismay to the artist’s disconsolate tears. “What are you crying for? You need to see a doctor and get some therapy.” The voices give way to vigorous splashing, turning wince-inducing pathos into…

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