• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 02
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Without pigment, without adornment, perhaps without blood or flesh, a mannequin — a porcelain arm attached to the torso with elastic, and the eyes — are they glass and sightless? Or is there life in them? Someone has written here of seeing suffering. But it might be the suffering of the viewer. I think these beautiful glass eyes draw out what is in us when we look at them. Pain, maybe. I see defiance as well in that pout just north of the dimpled chin. Defiance and pride — why not? — in the perfection of the shape. We have been struck so far by a face with features. But the first blow was struck without our knowing it, by the head, its pale egg-shape poised against a black velvet blanket that soaks up all the light behind this figure whose remote without-ness draws pain, curiosity and defiance from within the fascinated viewer.