Our subject pulls her face taut against her skull. Her ice-blue eyes bulge under stiffly-arched brows. She locks her stare on the infinite distance where no information exists in a pale sky. This must be private vision and not a reaction to the external world. Whether she is experiencing herself in a purely fictional story — or is enthralled by a scene from her autobiographical past — I do not think we can make a distinction. Her lips purse and repress anger and turn down in sadness at the edges. We might call her gaze: livid resignation, pointing to a disturbance forced upon her. When I analyze the inflections of her nose I imagine I smell ammonia. Her caustic experience appears to weaken her and bother her deep into her shoulders.