Picture 3

A female figure, seated, soberly dressed in bright white, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped on her lap, demure, composed.  To her left at head height, the curve of its form almost caressing the lines of her face, is a crow perched on, almost 'gathering up' swathes of black cloth.   It is balancing with its wings, busy, making its form scraggy, its beak seeming to point towards her shoulder, its intentions are unclear, is it going to pick at her or plunge down?  She turns her head from the crow, but something of her face, her hidden eyes, turns towards it, yet refusing interest.   Her legs are crossed away from it, her torso less so,  a double twist in her posture, creating an ambiguity;  there is something she relates to, she is not alone, not truly self-composed, yet something she relates to in a refusal, a turning away from, but with a slight admission in a non-interested way.  Standing back a little from the photo, the white shines out against the shadowy black, not part of it.

The crow that is black

My little turtle dove

Will change his feathers to white

If I am untrue

To the maiden that I love

The noonday shall be night

She sits in radiant white

At her left shoulder a scraggy crow

Pointing his beak to her

Always at her side reminding

Symbol of death or good fortune