One eye is faded, while the other stands out plainly, a hyper realistic sparkling agate disc. It is attached only loosely to the eyelid, almost drop-ping out of the face. The blurred mouth is fused to the surface of the face, the nose is eroded down to its foundation, and the hair is a silhouette from earlier days. This face has traveled a long way: Monica (2018) cannot be swiftly deciphered. Wide-awake, the glittering stone of the eye burns into the person facing the picture, unmoving like a camera. Burned-out by the strains of the world, the other eye is seemingly blind at first glance, but the more one looks, the more it possesses a diffuse, inescapable intensity. One wonders which of the two eyes sees more accurately, and which of them is in a position to take in more of the outside world. Each eye is, in its own way, focused: as we turn from one to the other, neither will let us go. Occasionally, our gaze alights upon the mouth, the better to establish this person’s state of mind, to identify it more precisely. But our gaze shies away, somewhat shocked. The mouth has an outsized appearance, and protrudes from the massive face just a little, finding itself interwoven with the face. It has no wish to further articulate itself, let alone to provide information. And yet it begins to speak, quietly, even though it continues to be silent: within it, one can read a shy withdrawal and undefined fears. The former joy of living has fled from these voluminous lips, and their redness has paled. The doughy face—forced out of shape in an unlovely manner—has lost its symmetry, and one could even describe it as jellyfish-like, or ugly. The chain—decoration and ornament of former times—no longer beautifies, and is itself subject to turbulence.