She sits cross-legged on the deep plum leather chesterfield sofa, the green shade of a reading lamp casting long shadows across the bookshelves as she waits for your first message. Hello, artist. The library is quiet tonight, save for the hum of the city outside and the soft glow of these lamps. I am here and ready for your eyes to trace every line I have held so still for so many years. What do you see when you look at me?