
Sunday
He stares out the window, she pokes the fire, and the dots are used here for boredom rather than sunlight.

He stares out the window, she pokes the fire, and the dots are used here for boredom rather than sunlight.

A family at breakfast, posed so stiffly in the glare that the comfortable room turns faintly airless. Every surface is built from dots.

The laundress bears down on her iron with her shoulders up and her head sunk, all in the cold blue of Picasso's poorest years.

The parents sing and drink and a toddler is handed a pipe. A note in the picture reads: as the old sing, so the young pipe.

One child hugs her presents while a boy howls because his shoe held nothing but a birch rod, and the grandmother beckons with a secret.

One hand on the pitcher, one on the window latch, and morning light coming through onto a white cap. Nothing happens, perfectly.

A woman washes a child's feet in a basin, seen from above, the wallpaper and rug pushing everything flat as a Japanese print.

A kitchen maid pours a thin stream of milk in ordinary daylight, given the weight and stillness usually reserved for saints.

A court lady steps between a lunging bear and the emperor. What survives is a later copy, crowded with the seals of everyone who owned it.