Liberté

She isn't looking at you. That's the first thing.

The arm is still raised, the crown still on, but the face has turned toward something outside the frame. A dark figure against the gold of the old railway hall, oranges and blues pushed bright behind her.

Of everything in that building, this is what I came home with.

Imagine a piece that never once asks for your attention and gets it anyway.

Whatever she's looking at, it isn't us.