I don’t know, said Paul, staring intently at the painting.
Me neither. I don’t get that face in the picture, with its long nose and narrow eyes, gazing down upon the naked, reclining girl. The face is so white, it’s like a ghost. And she is so pink, so fleshy and naked, her arms open, eyes shut. Her yellow angel’s hair. The exotic green plant, with its crevices and tentacle stalks; those two black, shadowy stripes, like arms reaching across her body. The fruit lying beside her. The deep blue draped seclusion. No, it says nothing to me, no, no.
MW Bewick 