Margaret Tait’s image-collage Portrait of Ga, from 1952, mixes intermittent voice-over, the snatched, reed-pipe refrain of a folk tune and the gently muted colour palette of wind-blown rural Orkney with images of the artists’ mother. First seen as an elegantly coiffured, reed-gathering white haired woman, her subject’s coat and herringbone pattern scarf echo the heather-and-peat tones and textures of her environment. Cigarette dangling, Tait’s mother is captured in motion: her hands beat time to an unheard music; she turns on the spot, arms swinging loosely around the thinness of her body and travels in a half-running walk. Coming to rest, she drinks a cup of tea, reads, and, with great delicacy, framed in a close-up of fine-boned hands, unwraps the yellow stickiness of a boiled sweet from its cellophane wrapper, carefully keeping edges apart. Half in shadow, the contours of her face are offset by bird call, and the flapping of a coat in the wind.