One long second, that’s how long I see her. But her image stays
hanging before my eyes for a long time afterwards. She is a
portrait, a living portrait in a frame behind glass. On her left a blue
curtain, covering a fraction of the big window. An old armchair is
turned to the light and she sits there with a book. She reads. A
simple beige bra is all she is wearing. Paintings cover the walls, the
room is filled with artist utensils: an easel, brushes, cloth. At least,
that’s what I think I saw, maybe I am making it up. The second
didn’t last long.