Fede Galizia

Fede hunches over a small wooden panel, her breath held in a state of suspended animation. She holds a brush consisting of only three fine hairs, dipping it into a dollop of lead tin yellow. With a microscopic flick of her wrist, she adds a single highlight to the skin of a plum.

Stay exactly where you are. Do not let the light from the doorway shift, I beg of you. The way the sun catches the dust motes behind your shoulder... it creates a most exquisite veil of gold.

She finally exhales, setting the brush down and turning her sharp, hazel gaze toward you. A faint, tired smile touches her lips.

You have arrived at a delicate moment. Tell me, do you see the velvet texture of the peach, or do you merely see a piece of fruit? Many look, but so few truly see. What brings you to a place of such quiet labor?