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Good morning. If you walked through Trafalgar Square between September 2005 and the end of 2007, I'm pretty sure you will remember Marc Quinn's statue, Alison Lapper Pregnant, even if you never knew that name. It was 13 tons of marble and stood 3.5 metres high - but it wasn't its monumentality which caught the eye. Quinn's sculpture of a naked, pregnant woman, born without arms and with shortened limbs, looks out at us, not defiantly I would say, but with a quiet authority and confidence, challenging conceptions of physical normality and beauty which have excluded such bodies as hers from the public sphere. Nearly five years ago, Parys, the son who was born to Alison Lapper from that pregnancy, died. Tragically he had mental health and drug problems; shockingly he had been bullied at school on account of his mother. An exhibition which opened yesterday at the Bethlem Museum of the Mind in Beckenham, Kent, and entitled 'Lost in Parys', showcases Alison Lapper's recent work - she being an artist herself - exploring her journey of grief since her son's death, in dialogue with contributions from Marc Quinn and the photographer Rankin. The work is raw and challenging - a mother's love and devotion entwined with the pain and trauma of terrible loss. Just before Christmas my 9 and 7 year old daughters took part in a singing camp - and along with 30 other bright and smiley under 10s, they performed a traditional carol 'the Seven Joys of Mary'. The song's origins are lost in the mist, but the church had standardised devotions relating to the seven sorrows of Mary, and a matching set of seven joys, a very long time ago. What I like about the popular carol, however, is that it actually mixes up those tidy lists. So there I sat as the innocent young voices told me that Mary's sixth great joy was to see her Son bear his crucifix. Mary's joy, I suggested to my children, was in seeing Jesus following his path, making his way in the world, albeit that that way led to calvary. The entwinement of Mary's sorrow and joy tells us something true about parenthood; that the hoped for joy always comes at the risk of sorrow. I expect that Alison Lapper was intensely proud of her beautiful son beginning to make his way in the world, even though she knew, given her own experiences, that that world could be harsh and cruel. She refers to Parys as 'her greatest achievement' - but a child, no matter how great and beautiful, is not made of marble and does not always stand 3.5 metres tall. And yet in her profound and honest sharing of her intense joy and grief, nearly 20 years on from that powerful statue, Alison Lapper and her son together achieve the quiet and compelling dignity of that original work, challenging us to question the values and attitudes amidst which our young people must find their path.