The worlds' fate lays heavily on the painters' shoulders, with all its' constructions, games, fights, ruins, negations, arguments and denials. But a woman painters' bosom is a runway for the senses, like an airport in Amazonia, or Camille Claudel and Augustine Rodin.
As the Poet divines: “Like the world you change from hour to hour, And your colour goes from pink to yellow; Ignorant of your path, you observe its' many faces.”