It would be very easy to say that it was the form. It had been thought of before at length. Volumes could be written about that alone. The pose, however, was unique.
The boxy contemporary chair held the form as she leaned into the arm rest. The eye made the leg first. Toes pierced thought with black tips. They were not a ballerina’s shape. There was a tip that danced into a curve of the leg. The legs were crossed and together arced beautiful through the air. It was an unintentional curve that stirred the mind.
The diminutive hulk slumped in the chair. The shoulders betrayed the delicate intricacy of the legs. The cream color the striped sweater tempered the angles that did not exist.
Hair fell across her face as thoughts moved through the mind. Was this the found beauty? The world outside had been dismissed. A hand propped up the head while the other streamed thoughts to paper. The script had turns that mimicked the curve of her legs. The eyes were not hidden, but the face was indiscernible. Focus transcended physical beauty. It brought a shiver that sent hair standing in the morning light.
The sun had a most catastrophic effect. It placed a shadow across Glenn Close as she stood in the ball park. The subject did not glow. She did not have a halo. It was pure light. Filtered rays came through golden hair. Shimmering drops of gold littered the floor. They danced as fingers pulled through hair; raking an absent thought.