She takes a moment to peer at the bust. The chip is on the ear, the damage done a long time ago, and the repair is excellent but unconcealed. She looks around again, realising that many things here are cracked or broken and subsequently remade. Windows, mirrors, floorboards and skirting boards. The spines of books. Perhaps it’s how Hunter was able to afford them: things discarded by a nation in love with the new and the glossy, and above all with things that can tell their own stories by digital report rather than by their scars. Hunter is content to infer the past from cracked glazes, from missing bronze feet and replaced glass. She is content to repair and reuse.