Nell Gordon: As Al Alvarez said, ‘A great work of art is a kind of suicide.’ So, are Grace Shield’s award-winning photographs art? And if they are, did she commit professional suicide in the process?

Every minute of every hour of that flight back to London gave its sixty seconds’ worth. She sat strapped in her seat, suspended between two continents, with nowhere to put down her grief. Were she the type to go mad, she thought, she would have done so on that flight from Boston.

Once home, she went straight into the darkroom and developed the last roll of film. She did not sleep that afternoon or the night which followed. She spread his dying days across her kitchen table and gazed upon them. Each picture told her, in its different way, why she had loved him: his smile, his eyes, warm and full of interest in the world, even after he knew that his stake in it was diminishing by the hour. The way he tried to hide his fear from her, making her laugh. She sat there at the kitchen table, not sleeping, not eating, studying those images.

Angelica came over. She used her key to let herself in. She took one look at Grace, shook her head and proceeded to view the photographs.

She said, ‘They’re beautiful.’ And she gave Grace two sleeping pills and helped her to bed.

Grace slept for twenty-two hours. When she woke, she found Angelica had returned and was sitting at the kitchen table, the photographs laid out in front of her. She looked up as Grace staggered through the door. ‘Sorry, I forgot; you should only take one of those pills. Still, you got some sleep.’

‘I did. Now I want to know if I’ll ever wake up again.’

‘Here.’ Angelica handed her a mug of strong Indian tea. ‘It’s your best work to date.’

Grace drank greedy gulps, leaning against the doorpost. ‘Can you see his soul?’ she asked.

A couple of days later Angelica phoned to say, ‘Everyone loves the pictures.’

Grace was feverish in her need to have her beliefs confirmed. ‘They saw it, the spiritual side, the …’

‘Sure. They’re great pictures. Harrowing. Could win prizes.’

‘I don’t think it’s what I want. They’re private, as private as birth and death …’

‘Death, at least, used to be a very public affair: relatives, friends, priests, servants, dogs … that’s why they weren’t so damn scared back then.’ Angelica must have been on her mobile because she was round at Grace’s flat just three minutes later. Taking Grace by the shoulders, she jerked her close. ‘Do you know what I see? I see great shots and first-rate work. Star-quality work. Of course it’s spiritual, of course there’s soul. But you know how it is. People see what they see. Really, Grace, I know you’re in a tough place right now …’

Grace couldn’t help a smile. ‘What’s this about “tough places”? I’m the one who’s been watching American television.’

‘Look.’ Angelica let go of her shoulders but took her hand instead, leading her to the sofa. ‘I know you’re going through hell right now. You’ve just lost the man you thought you loved.’

‘Try the man I know I loved.’

‘Whatever. You’re in shock. You’re grieving. But you’ve taken some truly great pictures here. You’ve told me yourself that it was his idea you should do it. His idea that you should put them on show. You’re honouring his wishes. I don’t see a problem.’

‘You’re full of it, Angelica.’ Grace sat down, as stiff and heavy as a woman twice her age. ‘It helped him to think he was doing something for me, for my career.’

‘There you are. Honestly, what’s the point of no one seeing them? Who will that help? I know how hung up on him you were.’ She caught the look Grace gave her and said quickly, ‘All right, all right, you loved him.’ She pulled a chair out. ‘Sit down.’

Grace did what she was told. Then she grabbed a cigarette from the packet on the table. ‘But I wanted to do it. Can’t you see, in the end I really wanted to take those pictures, for me?’

Angelica found some matches. ‘But, Grace, you did your best work while he lay dying. You composed your shots, worked out your light and your shades, your planes and your angles. Look, I don’t doubt you loved him, but your work is who you are. Why deny it? Why waste it?’

Grace inhaled on the cigarette, rubbing at her forehead, then she looked up at Angelica. ‘I was taking his picture when he died. I had my lens pointed at him, thinking about the way the light was falling, of the shadows cast; I was adjusting the focus and while I did all that, while I did all those things that I do to take my great pictures, he died and I did not even notice. So, do what you like.’

Grace walked up to the podium, her steps drowned out by the sound of applause. She accepted her cheque for thirty thousand pounds and said her thanks.

She asked the cab to drop her by the Albert Memorial. She wanted a walk. She passed a drunk on a seat in the park and gave him her Leica. Back home she transferred the cheque to a charity for the blind.