Her studio is still the same. An old chest of drawers, filled with paper and paints. Hundred year old jars-purple with age, holding her brushes. The artfully composed arrangement of a chambered nautilus shell and vase of fragrant, sagging lilacs, nestled among the folds of richly ornamented brocade.
As she lingers in the doorway, surveying the room, the overriding atmosphere of harshness cannot be blamed on the afternoon light-casting her studio in deeply shadowed contrast and texture-but rather in how her perception of herself has changed. She tentatively fingers a small silver palette charm hanging from an intricate twisted-link chain that rides the curves of her neck-as though she cannot quite decide what to do with herself.
She slips quietly into the room, almost as though she no longer fits comfortably among her paper and brushes and paints, and sits, leaning over an unfinished watercolor, to ponder the question of her talent. Or more to the point, how to right her world, knocked sideways by the just discovered talent of another, so extraordinary-a tesseract among squares if you will-that when glimpsed it tainted her belief in her own abilities.
Even her tears-wrung from eyes that now doubt the merit of her work-threaten to erode her confidence even further-mixing and blending colors in ways she’s certain she’ll never master.
the generalization of a cube to four dimension