February 2--Berthe Morisot, The Children of M. Gabriel Thomas. There was that dog again poking its nose into Louisa's hand when she was trying to sit so still. Max shoved it away with his knee making the painter hiss through his teeth that he would never take a commission to paint children again, especially not children with pets. There was no way to keep the dog away since they were set up in the conservatory where the light was best and the doors were open wide to let air in. That meant the dog could come and go too. Emile thought he wouldn't be surprised if birds and squirrels showed up next.
Sometimes I hear the story right away when I look at the picture (like last night) and sometimes I don't hear a thing (like the night before). C'est la vie, I guess. One of my toes is cold. One. You'd think that they'd either all be cold or none would be cold since they're all in pretty much the same place. Isn't the body a strange machine? I need to add the last layer of my garb and head out for work. Oh, and I waited too long to shower so I'll have frozen hair before I've gone a block or until the car warms up. At least it'll stay in place.
--Barbara
2 comments:
Barbara, is the painter paragraph yours?
The long black knitted strip is impressive but not as impressive as the sunshine on the snow and birds. Welcome sight on Groundhog Day.
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