When I call artist and lecturer Lisa Selby, I’ve just finished watching her documentary about her own life: an intimate, raw film touching on addiction, motherhood and trauma rumbling down through generations. So, when her face pings up on my computer, I feel as if I already know the funny, warm woman at the other end of the call.
“Are you OK?” Selby asks, peering down her screen. “You’ve taken in a lot of information today.” It’s a Friday afternoon. She’s in her front room in Nottingham, the walls behind her a lovely shade of forest green, books and plants on the shelves; the dog is dozing on the sofa. It’s kind of her to ask, but really it should be me asking how she’s doing.
