Van Cleef & Arpels: the Brooch

Van Cleef & Arpels

Squat Duckling (brooch)

circa 1970

(emerald, coral and gold)

     This piece immediately exudes a quality typical of a gifted maker, rather than that of a knock-off artist. Price and personal taste aside, the duckling is a character that pulls at each of our likings, however different they may be. It is quirky, charming and elegant all at once, and it seems about to trip over its two left feet like a blundering little hatchling only just becoming used to the big new world around it. Its eyes, too, seem independent from the rest of its body, as if they cause difficulty in restraining the duckling's clumsy curiosity from making it waddle around in circles, clearly unable to decide on which interesting thing to go nibble on or quack at first.

     Do we not all feel like this during at least one point in our lives, let alone when we were actually children? There are countless situations in which we catch ourselves privately wishing we could behave just like this duckling, to let out the way we really feel, to show that we are a bit lost and confused. There is nothing more satisfying than, at times, shedding our adult images and openly returning to our childish roots of reaction, whether that be throwing a wild tantrum alone in the bathroom, breaking a few of those ugly dishes or even purposely annoying the neighbours with a loud, off-tuned improvisation of a Queen song. Yes, being immature is selfish, but it is sometimes the only way to continue being mature, to go on playing the adult. And it is nothing but a comfort to come across a brooch as this and realise that, actually, it is all okay.

Raqib Shaw

Raqib Shaw

Detail of Suite of the Emerald Green Boudoir

circa 2012

(ink, enamel, paint, glass, rhinestones and gilding)

     Perhaps a cross between an ostrich, a baby vulture and a flamingo, this winged creature is certainly throwing a fit. Does it have such a temper because of its imprisonment to the ground (surely it cannot fly with such a thing attached to its ankle) or, in reverse, is it being punished because of its rowdy character? Whatever the case, its captor has chosen to make a bejewelled and almost humorous spectacle of their prisoner. Is there a reason why?

     Rather than cause it to suffer in a more conventional or crude way the captor decides to humiliate the bird's detention by glorifying the restraint of its only means of freedom: flight. Tethering it to something as inanimate and unyielding as a cannonball mocks the fact that the bird is taught its 'lesson' by a brainless object, while embellishing the cannonball's surface with flashy stones accentuates both the uselessness of its decoration and the power of attention that comes with that decoration: superficial, empty but nevertheless 'exotic'. The bird's weakness is brought about by this one ball. It causes it to screech and flap around like a mad, good-for-nothing animal that, when stripped of the only ability representative of its kind's strength, goes ballistic. Shaw does not show the bird as graceful or patient, but as clumsy and animalistic - as something just as brainless and pretty on the surface as the thing which holds it down. This illustration has quite a satircal undertone, and it is brilliantly done.

Ivan Bilibin

Ivan Bilibin

Father Frost

circa 1932

     'Dost thou know me? - me, the red-nosed Frost?' The young girl, frozen from her ears to the tips of her toes, does not know this stranger of the forest and yet, despite her predicament, she remains sweet and polite and always kind to him. He thus tests her stamina, doubting her character and way of talk: he sends frigid winds through her hair and fierce, snowy gusts against her skin. He brandishes the coldest temperatures of his deepest winters, whipping the trees and bushes all around into a frozen stupor, but still the girl replies, 'I am very comfortable, dear Father Frost'.

     Another of Aleksandr Afanasev's tales, Father Frost is seen illustrated beautifully by the famous Bilibin. From the tracery on the girl's red trunk to the heavy woolen weave of her mustard overcoat, and from Father Frost's green chequered gloves to his billowing beard, the artist skilfully restricts colour to the scene's only living creatures, leaving the rest to be doused under the blanket of this one of many Russian winters. By tracing with dark ink the shadows of branches and patches of bark, Bilibin allows the negative white spaces to act as the individual pockets of snow. He gives texture to each heap without conforming to a form of hyper realism - without even touching his brush to certain parts of the canvas - all so as to draw out a perspective particular to him, and for us. A light dusk falls gently in the background, seen over the tops of those blue-crowned trees, like the ending to a simply perfect tale.

Niroot Puttapipat

Niroot Puttapipat

Two separate illustrations for Baba Yaga

circa 2009-11

     A cranky old woman raising havoc aboard a flying barrel - this is certainly an unusual sight. Furious is she to have been so cleverly cheated out of a hot meal by the very girl she was going to eat, Baba Yaga is seen pursuing, bat and broom in hand, the fleeing young maiden. Puttapipat strategically separates the girl from the old hag with the clump of tall trees, seen in his illustration to the right, so as to imply that no matter how desperately the witch will chase after her pretty two-legged meal, she will never catch her. Using tricks the young maiden learned from her wise aunt (for it was initially the maiden's evil step-mother who tried to rid her off by sending her away to her fake 'auntie', the notorious child-eater Baba Yaga), the girl carries out a series of odd tasks such as feeding to a pack of fierce dogs fresh bread rolls instead of dried crusts, and eventually finds herself completely out of harm's way.

     The beauty of this tale, rendered here for two different books of tales (The Red Fairy Book by Andrew Lang and Myths and Legends of Russia by Aleksandr Afanasev), lies not only in its mix of completely unrealistic events - giving it a sense of surrealism - but also in the irresistible imagery procured by its words. Comparing Puttapipat's earlier and later versions of the same tale emphasises his incredible proficiency in different media as well as the dedication he infuses into even the finest of details, making them all the more stunning.

Alexander McQueen: the Accessory

Alexander McQueen

Iris Skull Clutch

circa 2011

(antique gold (clasp), leather (interior) and satin silk)

     With this curious object marking the starting point from which a steady flow of other McQueen 'relics' will follow (and be admired), let us warn ourselves that in order to understand this designer's work in even the most superficial dimension it is necessary to expect as well as plainly accept the unexpected. This clutch, however, may be considered quite tame in contrast to some of McQueen's more audacious pieces.

     It is dark in taste: notice the black ground paired with the 'blooming' skull where there lies a possible trace of Codognato jewellery. This, unfortunately, makes the clutch an undeniable 'must-have' for those who prefer showing off over-popularised fashions of so-called gothic beauty rather than a more personal taste, perhaps, or even just timeless style. The real connoisseur recognises all things past the trendy skull. It is indeed macabre - but it is elegant, not vulgar. The age-old mysticism associated with the image of the skull is here made inferior to the rest of the clutch's detail. Petals of pinks and blues and greens dwarf any silly links with cult activity. They dress the skull in life and a lightness of heart; they almost tease it with the very thing it once had, but now lacks forever; and with their textured heads almost bursting off its body the heavy lily buds imbue the clutch with more of a love of living than a desire for dying. 

20th Century Jewellery: the Brooch

English (designer(s) unknown)

A Devilish Stickpin

circa 1900

(carved labradorite (head), enamel, ruby and gold)

     A delicate masterpiece. Its amount of detail is just enough to convey a playful kind of evil. Whether stuck through one's hat, breast pocket or foulard, it will grab the attention of both the wearer and the on-looker despite it reaching no more than 70 millimetres in length. It acts to 'peep' out of whatever material it clings to, like a mischievous little spy intent on revenge - rather like the devil, actually. The idea of big size - its dominance of space or its apparent 'control' - does not always inspire terror or fear. As seen with this little carved character, it is moreso the unobtrusive thing, that which remains unseen or just a bit too quiet, that inspires the most panic.

     More realistically, however, it is not the cunning face that inspires the panic of this piece, but rather its value estimated to nearly 3'600 GBP by Wartski (London). That, at least, makes one stare at this stickpin with a mixture of shock and wonder.

Julius Meinl (Austrian Firm)

Julius Meinl (Austrian firm, est. 1862)

Praline Box (Pappschachtel)

circa early twentieth century (?)

     An Austrian paper box vibrantly decorated with festive Russian motifs - all for the sake of pralines. What a wonder this would have been to any person opening it for the first time (and for those to come)! Or maybe, due to so much of the current rubbish filling the shelves of even the most prestigious sweet shops today, it only seems like this Julius Meinl artefact is worth more visually than what the contemporary eye has become used to.

     Besides that thought, this cardboard box is still a work entirely of its own no matter what its age. The looker is invited into at least three layers of experience: the visual, the textural and the savoury. First one must digest the colours and shapes of the illustration. Maybe a celebration of the coming of Spring, with flowers blooming from the snow under a warm sky specked with plump clouds, it brings to mind everything but chocolate. However, with a bit of imagination, one could treat this box as an actual Easter Egg à la russe, with its prominent colour being red (to represent the blood of Christ) and its element of song felt through the movement of its overall design as well as through the two balalaikas. The experience then continues into pulling open the lid of the box (the texture must be a bit grainy considering the earlier styles of printing) onto the actual smelling and tasting of the treats (once) within. As rich as it is already, consider the additional side-illustrations of chequered onions and striped turrets against darker skies of dusk.

Claude Lalanne

Claude Lalanne

La Pomme Bouche

circa 1975
(gilt bronze)

     Simultaneously humorous and disturbing, this apple looks surreal. It seems to constantly morph back and forth between its fruity side and its human side, like an undecided shapeshifter. In fact, is it an apple with a human mouth, or is it an eye-less, nose-less human with an apple head? 

     Perhaps plucked directly from Magritte’s The Son of Man (circa 1964), the idea of pairing humankind with nature brings to light a similar question as that of the chicken and the egg: though undoubtedly related, which came first? Was humankind really borne from nature, or is humankind the (or at least one of the) reason(s) for which nature exists in the first place? Without nature, would woman and man cease to exist? And without woman and man, would nature perish or weaken in some way? Questions as these always bear more of the same, and eventually those doing the questioning find themselves caught in a circle of complexity often riddled with the redundant and the inexplicable, all with a strange sense of clarity. But choosing to remain ignorant or uncurious with the fear of being tangled in one’s own web of natural confusion is foolish. Two facts to realise and to accept as solid truths are that without questions there are no answers, and that when lost, always return to simplicity. 

     That said, which stage of thought could Lalanne’s so-called apple represent? That where, after a long and tiresome self-orientated debate, it has reached its personal level of clarity? Or that where it has become so muddled within its own never-ending labyrinth of questions that it no longer recalls its original form? In which case - is it really only an apple with a mouth?

19th Century Metalwork: the Mould

Austrian or German (maker(s) unknown)

Chocolate Mould (?)

circa 1890 to early twentieth century

(aluminium)

     If you can, imagine yourself as a person in the late nineteenth century. You are in fin-de-siècle Vienna, or in a modest town or a mountain village and winter is near. The leaves of autumn are scattered and pasted on the pavements you walk along every day to and from your university or work, or anything. For some reason, whether out of habit or for an occasion, you choose to step into Charlie of Willy Wonka's very own shoes (though Roald Dahl's story has yet to be published nearly seventy years on) and buy yourself a bar of chocolate.

     The kiosk from which you buy it, the very same from which you sometimes buy le Figaro or a pack of Samum's Zigarettenpapier, momentarily fades into the background as you slowly peel back the wrapping paper. You feel its waxy texture, smell its first hint of bitterness - you lose yourself entirely in this small slab. Its face is a vignette of current life as you know it, held in your palm, showing the recent invention of automobiles, the evolving fashions for both men and women and the new luxury (only for those who are rich, though) of being able to visit the country-side at ease without the hassel of public transport. Its process of creation is also a testimony to the recent discovery of aluminium in the 1830s and, most important of all, the bar of chocolate (which was probably wrapped individually rather than in a set) serves as the earliest form of a cheap, accessible-to-all advertisment for the progress of human-kind. It emulates the dawn of the coming industial revolution. Mass production will fade the details and originality will be lost (though not for long) to a prevailing need of quantity over quality. One mould, hundreds of chocolate faces.

Peter Doig

Peter Doig

Paragon

circa 2006

     An instant reminder of Paul Gauguin's The Vision after the Sermon (circa 1888). A glowing red centre, like fire, separating one thing from another (which in this case is ground, so green, from water); lazy leaves bending into the frame from the top; and an odd trio of human beings, one of whom seems to be a ghost. Unlike Gauguin's group of devout Christians passively watching the struggle between Jacob and the angel, Doig's characters interact with each other. They remain unbothered by the red degree of division, and yet they are, in fact, part of the division. The upper body of the foremost leans into the greenery (thus 'connecting' the trio with land) while the farthest almost disappears with the current, and yet firmly stands on a surface. The middle figure, though obviously holding a cricket stick, could additionally be 'pointing' to something, but to what?

     Their line cuts the canvas in two, receding into the distance and pulling the eye to the valley beyond where a blue sky peeps through, nearly touching the marble-grey waters. Everything in this scene appears to melt, to merge, but at the same time remain independent of each other. On second thought, are the three characters one in the same person? From different angles does the figure twirl and twist - first with his back to us, then in profile and finally in full frontal? Is this a process of growth whereby life is treated like a game, where at each new stage we learn to hold and master a different tool? If so, then the last most 'mature' figure supposedly half-floating, half-standing is the ideal prototype of adulthood. He has merged with both land and water, and with the division between both things itself. A true paragon?

Piet Mondrian

Piet Mondrian

Chrysanthemum

circa 1908-09

     It is like a head of tossled hair, maybe a little boy's, whose curls run off in as many odd and weird directions as does his imagination. Can one really see the face of a child, of whomever a child will grow up to be? Not really. The face of this little boy is therefore obscured. He is lost in tangles of things that, only at this age, he can enjoy without the burden of knowing what they actually mean, or what damage or joy they would bring to his adult life. Laughing them away as mere thoughts, as ideas that he will probably be indifferent to after a minute or two, are a child's remedy to passing time. In and out of holes created by an immature mind gives children the glazed look of serenity. A sudden silence or an outburst of energy seems only childish to grown-ups, but with the amount children do not understand and yet see and feel at the same time, their 'childish' behaviour is actually surprisingly subdued. 
     If we, the so-called ''adults'', place our adult minds in that of a child we would explode. The pressures a child takes without realising - those that grown-ups normally experience, dissolve into or even over-analyse to points of depression or comfort or instability - weigh down and test prematurely the child's strengths. These pressures mould us from day one, whether we know it or not. Like buds we bloom but never truly re-bloom; we stretch ourselves slowly outwards, unable to really stop or revisit a fetal position of safety, until, as elderly people, we soon find ourselves fully splayed and naked to world, about to leave it. Like this Chrysanthemem we try to hold our heads high to the end, but in truth every one of us is the same child with tossled hair - observing, looking, but lacking any clue as to what is really going on in the world we see.

Rik Wouters

Rik Wouters

Baby with Blue Cap

circa 1911

     With its eyes slightly enlarged and its posture a bit too straight, Wouters is able to animate a two-dimensional pastel portrait with a touch of real childish 'bounce'. Clouded in a puffy garment of light pinks and many blues, topped with an over-sized blue-bell knit hat and anchored to the spot in front of a wave of quivering wallpaper the child sits attentively. Like a flower stalk its feeds off of the sunlight; off of whatever is the most interesting thing in the room. It cranes its head here and there, stopping at this point to observe whatever muse the artist placed to its left to keep it transfixed for a long enough time. We can see the hasty stick-work, the spots where Wouters scrubbed the raw chunk of pastel (or pigmented chalk?) onto the canvas, leaving a rough rectangular imprint to make up for the child's creased sleeve or pattern, or for its little hands and chin.

     It is interesting to think that their roles - that of the artist and of the sitter - are reversed in this situation. Babies are often erratic and tempermental but in this case, while the child was caught in a moment of stillness, it was actually Wouters who was apparently stung by a burst of energy. His hand work varies dramatically across the portrait (compare the rough blue backdrop to the baby's flesh) and in some areas he even neglected to finish details. His attention, like the baby's, was clearly drawn to one point. For both it was a moment of interest, but it is probably for only one that this moment was remembered later in life.

Levi Pinfold

Levi Pinfold

Illustration for Black Dog (children's book)

circa 2011

     We look up into the scene, like a child having just entered the room. We sense sudden movement, then colour and noise. Taking in the grandeur of the space for the first time we see that the man is statuesque, solid. He is the dependent trigger, the battery responsible for the life of this indoor event. He holds onto the air, onto the moment, by the way he tenses each of his fingers. What is out there?, he questions.

     Everything else assumes a slow motion. The toast slides lower off its falling plate, about to meet the same fate as its other now milk-sodden half; in turn, the droplets of milk slowly patter up into the cat's face, startled and scoffing; the maroon cushioned stool plummets calmly into nothingness, about to clunk harmlessly against the painted wooden floor boards; at this clunk the second cat will finally leap from the sill, out from under the child's protective hand which kept it in a perilous perch; the whoosh! of air created by its light leap with agitate the papers on the floor (maybe the red crayon will roll closer the yellow one), causing them to hover lazily before they return to their spots, only a little to the left; and finally, the narrative turns to us. We make the next move. Slowly, as of this first page, we are meant to help set in motion the following scenes, to embark on a journey to find what caused the man to jump so quickly. The artist brilliantly hooks his audience with the powers of perspective and motion, drawing us into his world through a simulated fish-eye lense - making us feel small, curious. Making us return to a childish mind-frame of, What next? And all without a word.

Beatrix Potter

Beatrix Potter

Hill Top on a Winter Night

circa late 1890s (?)

     Just as with words in her diaries, Mrs Potter portrays the same degree of love for her home with watercolour. Here, light escapes from Hill Top's open entrance and from the windows beside and above it, casting an image of comfort and solitude in the midst of looming bushes and branches, each spidery and stricken from the bite of northern temperatures. The sloped drive, padded down with a hint of cart wheels, draws the eye up and out of the cold towards the bay of human (or animal, for that matter) activity, making us wonder - in terms of Mrs Potter's imagination - what could be happening behind those walls.

     The small size of this piece (about that of a regular hand palm) emphasises her skill at rendering what seem like fine details out of carefully thought-out blobs and blotches of (or lack of) colour. Knit together on such a small scale they form an intimate scene, but with closer inspection these details become, ironically, out of focus. This is the magic that lies behind many of Mrs Potter's stories: addressing the minds of children, she weaves together common details of moral with bright interpretations of animal life, creating on the whole an imaginative tale that is in fact very realistic. Read too closely and the tale loses perspective - perhaps it is even called too flowery or frilly - but when seen from a relaxed distance, as with this illustration, its true message is seen at its best.

Vassily Kandinsky

Vassily Kandinsky

Russischer Reiter

circa 1902

     It is strange that, having stared at this work for years, it is still difficult to describe why it is so strong a piece. With a voice made from its colours and contours, Kandinsky's illustration is able to maintain a consistent degree of visual intensity all year round. It is not a cliché image such as a bouquet of flowers (which, however attractive it may be, risks losing strength with the change of season or when paired with another group of flowers), but an image whose voice disguises and alters according to mood and place - one whose voice acts as a shield against the effects of time.

     Like the style of composition itself - with objects slightly blurred in outline, blotched in pools of rich reds, greens or black - it is an image who speaks the particular tongue of its viewer, one that connects almost personally with him or her. It shape-shifts and moulds itself to their tastes, sometimes depending on factors as small as the moment's lighting or scent, all the while remaining the distinct landscape Kandinsky painted it as. His rider tells them, us, to look at that great blue reflective lake; to feel the peeling birch trunks and the taut hide of the horse (as theatrical as it is, almost like one belonging to a toy-soldier); and to listen for any chimes or chirps ringing from the gold onions and the birds in the pines. The rider even turns on his saddle, imploring us to be a part of his scene, to live with it and in it every day so as to know it as a friend, as someone who lasts forever. With that said, who can really describe a true friendship easily, in simple words?

Stephen Rose

Stephen Rose

The Worn Leather Chair

circa 2012

     An old, torn, pathetic-looking armchair glorified for its overuse and obvious mistreatment. Is this beautiful? Does this scene bring out a pitiless kind of sadness in the viewer? Does is evoke shock? Seeing as none of us really views a piece of furniture as an animate, 'real' thing (or do we?), could anyone really care for something so crude?

     Yes. This answer speaks on behalf of no matter how small the minority is who treats and cares for its so-called non-living things as parts of their personality, as their defining tags of identity. This chair means something to someone, to this contemporary artist - so much so that he immortalised its portrait so lovingly, so accurately and realistically, down to the dull shine of the legs and railings and to the fraying tongues of the stained leather cushion and back, that the naked presence of this chair is far more striking as it is now than if a bejewelled Catherine Deneuve sat herself down in it for a short rest. This chair is a slice of time; it shows slash after slash of days gone by, of moments lived and lost. It shows age at its ugliest. It shows that Rose attempts to bring out the truth of how the things we choose to label as unimportant or silly can manifest themselves in tangible forms, in things that simply cannot be swept under the rug. Slightly askew in its frame, a bit wobbly here and there, this chair proves this truth - thus Rose succeeds.

the Wiener Werkstätte: Rudolf Kalvach

Rudolf Kalvach

Postcard (no. 148)

circa 1895 to early twentieth century

     A puzzle-like parade of vagabonds and weirdos. A demon-possessed chamaeleon hisses at a black racoon; a panther cub as dark as Indian ink perches warningly on top of a grotesque yellow claw of the tallest male stick figure, his dress robes seemingly made of red button mushrooms (and his other claw caressing the buttocks of what looks like a very large and polka-dotted armadillo). Beneath the cub is a sun-burnt neckless dinosaur (tail included) with numerous pits and cavities and a pair of over-sized contact lenses (of which we can only see one, thankfully). In the sky above is nothing but the deepest blue of nothingness characteristic of the waning minutes before nightfall, topping a terrain of green-bordered hills and white-sanded bays tumbling down to a narrow Matisse-cut strip of lake. Making up the rear of the parade is a snake-necked, chicken pox-stricken rooster whose remaining body - if one could name it that - is made up of a many-tentacled, red-brick road patterned crinoline dress, the latter being covered slightly by a yellow-specked cape. And lastly, leading this character is a snobby-looking figure who, nose high in the air, clearly thinks her yellow skin colour goes very well indeed with her putrid green, fur-lined manteau (a bad choice, no doubt).

     Whatever this scene is meant to depict, the joy of guessing is at least meant to be neverending.

Siegfried Stoitzner

Siegfried Stoitzner

Wood Gnome and Squirrel

circa early 1900s

     Are we looking through a lense? Our perspective is narrowed and focused on the central part of the scene where the bark of the branch is clearest, as are the warm tufts of orange squirrel hair and the scrawny fingers and ferocious white coif of the little man, giving us the sense that we are huge in comparison to these two creatures over whose squabble we loom. The details, however minimal, are well-drawn. They tell us that the artist was skilled in executing anatomy no matter how small the scale or how playful and comical (as this picture is) the subject. He and Arthur Rackham share the same foggy depiction of colour and the same motionless animation of fantasy-based figures, each bringing to life a world that undoubtedly catches the attention of both children and adults.

     The watercolour is odd, though: either it was never completed during the artist's lifetime or, as already noted, it is meant to appear slightly out of focus. Surely the dense green wall of foliage has faded nevertheless due to constant handling without protective gloves (as natural hand oil tends to eat away or dissolve less-durable media as watercolours), but this is probably not the sole reason for its fading: the picture's edges are too evenly paled all round. However, having once sold for nearly 1'000 Euros the fading clearly does not affect the picture's evident charm - nor does it seem to interrupt the creatures' 'whose-nut-is-whose?' argument.

the Wiener Werkstätte: Josef Hoffmann

Josef Hoffmann

Pin Cushion

circa 1908

     A silver bundle of leaves and a domed trellis: is this not a clever echo of nature? Adding and removing pins from the top gives the piece a touch of seasonal evolution, of growth - as in the more laden the cushion is, the more 'dense' the canopy of fruity or flowery trees is (whether the pins are coloured or not). This particular phase of the cushion [inset] implies winter; its espalier is bare, dormant, making the leaves below seem frozen without their usual crown of blossoms. Perhaps a few silver or grey-headed pins should speckle the cushion, but for the time being they would only emulate a light snow fall.

     Hoffmann's design is timeless. It does not stand out as something unusual or odd, nor does it fit into a niche of perfectly ordinary things. It does not beg for attention, nor does it remain unnoticed. It is just a wonderfully subtle and calm work of art imbued with a tinge of character (from what or whom, who can really say?) that tickles the eye when it comes in sight. As delicate as Peche's ivory bell (see post for 14 April 2013), it invites one to touch it, to memorise its weight and to feel its size - to discover where its little heart beats, whether it lies in the pin cushion's very centre or throughout the entirety of its chased skin.

Wojciech Weiss

Wojciech Weiss

Nude

circa early 1900s (?)

     Her skin is nearly blinding. Her torso is rather long, too long, and her neck is held stiffly. She is more like an overgrown marionette than an actual human, with features so surreally perfect but abnormal at the same time.

     A light source in itself, the white, ethereal pallor of her body radiates her indifference to or unawareness of the audience behind her. She is cool, untroubled - she is wrapped in lazy thoughts spurred by the embroidered blue-bell birds flitting across that heavy golden curtain. Echoing their elegant tail feathers, a satin toile holds up her hair on which a rich light, from either a lamp or the outdoors, casts feather-like rays that seem to sprout from a sort of communal stem, its 'roots' buried in her tight bun. Her elbow rests casually on the back of a chaise longue; her right arm shields the gentle curve of her breast; and with a long swoop her spine, articulated with a hint of shadow, arcs downwards to her bottom slightly rouged by the reflection of the striped fabric. The seduction of this woman lies in her act of not awknowledging or caring for us, her audience. We are curious, maybe even aroused, by her lack of a face and a name that, in truth, are as equally mysterious as the stunning allure of her skin, crystal-pure and untouchable. We will stare at her for ages to come, but never will she reveal even the slightest extra inch of her body to us, intent on keeping the beauty of the unknown at its peak.