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Untitled (Courtyard with Maidens)
Sunlight filters through the courtyard arches, casting lace-like shadows on the stone. Three maidens linger by the fountain, their whispered secrets lost in the splash of water. One adjusts her shawl, another gazes at the doves—each caught in a private reverie beneath the same golden light.
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Printemps (before 1892)
A young woman cradles a bouquet of fresh blooms, her gaze soft and distant. Delicate petals spill over her hands, their vibrant hues contrasting with the muted folds of her dress. Spring lingers in the air, caught between her fingers and the quiet turn of her thoughts.
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Portrait of Helen Vincent, Viscountess D’Abernon (1904)
Helen Vincent’s poised elegance fills the frame, her gaze both direct and elusive. The rich textures of her gown contrast with the soft glow of her skin, a study in aristocratic grace. There’s something unspoken in her expression—neither smile nor frown, but a quiet, knowing presence.
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Portrait Of Edith Hope Iselin (1930)
A poised woman gazes past the frame, her dark dress contrasting with the soft glow of her skin. The hint of a smile lingers, suggesting a private thought left unspoken. Light catches the pearls at her neck, their luster mirroring the quiet confidence in her eyes.
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11 Heures Du Soir. Portrait from Les Dix-huit Heures d’une Parisienne (c. 1830)
A Parisian woman at midnight, her face half-lit by candlelight. The loose curls and slipping shawl suggest a private moment, caught between evening’s end and night’s secrets. The glow softens her features but sharpens the shadows behind her—what thoughts linger in those unreadable eyes?
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Reading (1873)
A woman sits absorbed in a book, sunlight dappling her dress. The brushstrokes blur the line between figure and air, as if she might dissolve into the afternoon. Her stillness hums with quiet intensity—the world outside the page fades to a murmur.
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Woman at a Window (1880 – 1911)
A woman stands by the window, her silhouette framed against the light. The room feels still, heavy with quiet. Her gaze lingers somewhere beyond the glass, lost in thought or memory. The ordinary moment holds something unspoken, a tension between the warmth inside and the world waiting outside.
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Dame in Gelb (1899)
A woman in a luminous yellow dress turns slightly, her face half-hidden. The brushstrokes blur the background into softness, making her the only sharp point in a world of whispers. That dress glows like sunlight through stained glass—bold against the muted tones around her.
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Mrs. Frederick Mead (Mary Eliza Scribner) (1893)
A woman in black lace gazes past the viewer, her gloved hand resting lightly on a chair. The rich fabric of her dress pools around her, shadows playing across its folds. There’s a quiet intensity in her expression—neither posed nor candid, but something lingering between the two.