Her Countenance

Mme. Beaulieu glides around her students as they stand at uneasy attention beside their easels. The airy French art studio is silent as each aspiring artist waits in anxious anticipation for their venerated mentor to pause before each painting to give her valued appraisal.

For young Mlle. Antoine, this day held such great promise. Her spirit had soared when she heard Mme. Beaulieu’s inspiring words as she informed her eager students of her expectations for this latest challenge. The venerable teacher had directed their attention to the new model: a radiant and genteel young woman who wore a sparkling, but tasteful, tiara and a flowing white evening gown. She held a single rose and gazed into the distance with an expression both poignant and mysterious. Mme. Beaulieu had even provided a gossamer backdrop, making the subject ethereal, almost reverential.

“Look at her face,” Mme. Beaulieu said, her normally soft voice rising with excitement. “You will capture this woman’s countenance,” she instructed. “I want to sense a touching story reflected in her eyes when I look at her face. If you are successful, I will feel a stirring within my soul.” Mme. Beaulieu’s tone became insistent and urgent. “Now begin. You have only today to prove yourselves to be inspired artists.”

Mlle. Antoine had thought for several minutes before putting brush to canvass, then, with taut concentration, she began her creative labor to etch out her masterpiece.

And now the moment had arrived. Would Mme. Beaulieu appreciate the expressive visage? Would the eyes on the canvass confirm the despair that Mlle. Antoine had worked so hard to capture?

Mme Beaulieu finally makes her way to Mlle. Antoine. She studies the portrait, leaning in close as if scrutinizing each pixel of a photograph. She then calls the other students over and, as they gather around, she instructs them to offer up a collective assessment of the portrait. The students clear their throats and shuffle from one foot to the other, knowing that they will be evaluated on their critique as much as Mlle. Antoine’s work will be judged.

The students quickly and discreetly confer. The senior student, Mlle. Roseau, speaks for the group. As Mlle. Antoine listens for key words to tell her that she has, indeed, captured the sophisticated emotion of her subject, she can scarcely hear the hesitant evaluation of her peers.

Mme. Beaulieu’s face is contorted, hard and grim, as she nods her head in agreement as Mlle. Roseau shares the students’ appraisal: The rose was the loveliest shade of pink they'd ever seen.