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.