She pretends to read Baudelaire in the original French, even though she is alone. It creates a mood, a sense of self that is unrealized, but desired. All is open, her red Dior jacket, her practiced gaze, her book of poetry, her body entire. For a time not yet come. Soon, she hopes, whispering an unholy prayer to Joan of Arc.
This is my studio for exploring my work. Consider these drafts.