|The Lady With the Umbrella John Singer Sargent, 1911|
Rose-Marie's sprawled back against the feather pillows. A momentary respite, escaping the confines of her corset. As if she'd just flopped back after a large lunch. She's bundled up against wind and weather. A hat, a scarf, a parasol. Did she forget her gloves? The red and blue accents on her midi-blouse suggest she was boating, or perhaps a game of lawn tennis is in progress. Her hips are canted towards the artist, her skirt is a field of snow. Damp grass threatens to stain her voluminous white petticoats. She's watching him paint her. She wishes he'd hurry up. He says: One more minute. Five. He is in love with all that diffuse light, and the undertone of lake reflections. But her eyes have traveled beyond the confines of the frame to another time. And the score is love or nothing.