On the hallway wall hung a black-and-white photograph of a young woman with penetrating eyes and a mouth too large for her face.

NEWYORKER: Sweetheart Sorrow

It is the coming attraction that we dread, and from which cinema, by and large, has turned its face, just as Anne, her condition worsening, flinches from a mirror.

NEWYORKER: Love Hurts

For a time, she took up painting and made large canvases on which she drew crude images of her face struck through with angry slashes of color.

NEWYORKER: Temporary