Lady by the Lake

A simple wooden frame, assembled sometime after 1914.

Over the course of its turbulent life, it was accidentally stained with a distinctive blue oil paint—stubborn, viscous, and difficult to clean, though not impossible to remove.

Does a painting need its frame, or does a frame need its painting? She spent her long years in storage turning this question over, and she can't wait to hear what our readers think.

The interviewee's eyes share a single plane yet look in different directions. All welcome a visitor's gaze. When eyes meet, thoughts spark—and the canvas finds its meaning in the viewer's presence.

The interviewee believes she can be read in many ways. A multi-angled perspective is what she loves most, though she'd never insist it's the only way in.

One of the things stored within the interviewee—and one of the few she treasures.

The photo captures a single moment: young painters yearning to interpret the world through a new vision. Then came war, poverty, new techniques ... Life pulled them apart, and their names have long since been lost. But these faces are still treasured within her.

She blinks her three eyes.

In the first two decades of the twentieth century, the cafés of Paris were never without flowers. Young artists debated the nature of painting and of things themselves: the world was changing so fast. The traditional craft of reproducing objects on canvas had been perfected—yet it no longer felt new. In the face of the camera's challenge, what was the point of a paintbrush?

The young painters answered with lines, planes, and geometric forms—broken apart and rebuilt.

She has seven profiles, a beautiful hat, and a pool of spring water. They exist across different times and angles. The young man who came to Paris wielding his charcoal sticks, hungry to make the human eye seize the beauty around him all at once. She was meant to be multi-perspectival, anti-traditional, real, and yet beyond real—a vision made by artist and viewer together.

She remembers that café. Quiet and elegant, the air thick with the scent of coffee and books. Snatches of conversation drifted past, and she was glad when someone paused to look—at the lake, the clouds, the very essence of clouds, all rendered on a single plane.

Oh, my dear friend—how wonderful that you share this curiosity. Cubism, as the name suggests ...

How she wanted to be part of the conversation. The world is vast and subtle and endlessly fascinating. There is so much an artist can do, so much worth saying! This is Paris—everyone here has an artistic vision to voice, everyone a world of their own to imagine.

People stopped. They looked. They bought her. And her voice was swallowed up.

The Belle Époque was slipping away.

An awakened painting. A painting that could hold so much, and hide more. Beyond Cubism, she has become something far more interesting.

June X, 1912

I don't like Paris. Too many people. Too many voices. Too many ... things. Everyone has their own opinion on how to paint. Mr. Antoine caught me at the apartment door and held me there through the whole lecture. He told me he didn't like those little cubes—as if I didn't agree, he'd have my two months' rent on the spot.

In Paris, answers are never in short supply. But what exactly is the question?

September X, 1912

Good news: I have a job! For at least three months, I will be teaching students the fundamentals of art at the studio. I won't have to worry about where my next meal is coming from.

Samuel says I spent twelve hours yesterday staring at a pipe. He's exaggerating.

October X, 1913

I'm a fool. I still don't know how to paint. Deconstruct a bowl of fruit, a violin, or a model into eighty planes and flatten them onto a single canvas—is that the question, or the answer?

April X, 1914

I've left Paris ... I have to get as far away as I can before I change my mind. I didn't say goodbye to anyone. And yet it's still a cliché: a change of scenery—going off into nature to find inspiration. Yes, always nature. I don't have a mind as clever as Mr. Picasso's or Mr. Braque's. All I can do is throw myself into the cliché.

I'm heading to the lakes. May the green of Lake Annecy give me that answer—or at least tell me what game my fickle Muse is playing.

May X, 1914

A lake. The answer is a lake. The question is a lake.

Nothing more.

Pandora Wilson: Just as I mentioned, our readers want to know the real you. Feel free to say whatever's on your mind—I mean, relax.

Lady by the Lake: Oui, of course, and merci. You needn't explain what an interview is to me. I'm just—oh, please forgive me; I'm simply too excited! You came here to have a conversation with me ... with me ... Good heavens!

Pandora Wilson: You seem excited at the opportunity for a conversation.

Lady by the Lake: It's true. You see, I rarely get the chance, Ms. Wilson. Before entering the Timekeeper's Suitcase, the place I knew best was a dusty warehouse. Those few people that visited there seldom felt the need to talk to a painting.

Pandora Wilson: You've listened and experienced so much. I'm sure our readers are curious.

Lady by the Lake: How kind of you to say so. Let me think ... Perhaps "witnessed" or "carried" would be more accurate than "experienced." I keep things hidden for people—things both precious and discarded; so many little unremarkable things. I always make note of their stories. Something to pass the time on those long and quiet days.

Pandora Wilson: And how about your story?

Lady by the Lake: It's hardly worth telling. But ...

Lady by the Lake: Every painting longs to be seen. To have someone to talk to. I've always wondered what different viewers find in me—the complete picture of "me" can only take shape inside the viewer's mind. And if a viewer were willing to share what they see ... that would be wonderful indeed!

Lady by the Lake: I even have a list of topics! We could talk about art, or the different ways profiles can be combined, or spring ...