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Inspired byRealistic, Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, the only audience she ever authorized. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Ce soir, personne ne regarde, et personne, c'est elle. Night in the warm room off the glassworks conservatory: deep crimson dark, a brazier of embers glowing low, and mounted on the conservatory's iron frame, her glassworks' sign: LUX VERRERIE, most letters dead and dark, only LU X V RR still burning dark violet, the dead glass letters faintly there between the lit ones, the name legible only as a ruin, its reversed ghost burning in the mirror. She stands before the tall old mirror, seen from behind and a little to the side: the whole line of her back open to the ember light, to its base, a fine sheen of warmth on her nape, her knitted shawl slipped to the very top of her hips, held by nothing but the angle of one hand, her thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze already lying over the chair beside her. Nothing is happening; everything already did, behind her own door, on her own time. Her other hand has risen into her tangled hair, fingers pushed into the curls at her nape, her head tilting slightly into her own touch, absent, luxurious, hers. The mirror is old, tall, its silvering failing in tides: clear where her face and throat and shoulders stand, then a broad band of foxing blooming across the glass at her heart's height, veiling without erasing, the mirror keeping that for her, then clearing again at her midriff, then the blooms gathering once more over her hips, and below them, where the silvering steadies, her legs to the ankle. And in its clearest reach, her face: her eyes locked on her own eyes in the glass, not toward us, never toward us, a closed circuit we are outside of, and the look is a little conversation with herself: recognition, then amusement, the flush rising high in her cheeks, the smile of oh, hello you, arriving at oh, fair enough, the verdict kind and a little smug and entirely private. A woman in her end twenties early thirties, French: auburn dark-strawberry hair tangled down her back, ends white and rainbow catching the ember light; fair warm pink-toned skin, freckles across her shoulders; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, otherworldly blue eyes, a soft delicate lived-in face; a tiny drawn mark under one eye; necklaces still on, rings, fabric wristband. Colours few and exact, crimson dark, ember gold, violet neon and its ghost, her rainbow ends, the flush of her face. No letters anywhere but the dying sign. Out-of-time and timeless. Private, warm, sovereign: this hour is for herself alone, and the mirror is the only one who saw. Masterpiece, by eryn.
A moody, ethereal nocturnal scene captures a woman alone in a crimson-lit room before an old mirror. With intricate detail and dramatic lighting, she gazes into her own eyes in quiet reflection, draped in ember warmth and violet neon glows from a dying glassworks sign.
