Maud is Only Seventeen 1919

Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale painted Maud in a garden of thick foliage with a smooth, creamy paint, like she's spreading buttercream on a cake. I imagine her standing in the garden, squinting slightly against the sunlight, the smell of roses and damp earth filling her nostrils. Maybe she’s thinking about how to capture the way the light filters through the leaves, dappling everything in these soft greens and yellows. Those blues of the ribbons and lavender are so delicate, like whispers of color amidst all the green. And then there's Maud, only seventeen, standing so still. I wonder if Fortescue-Brickdale was inspired by other artists of her time, like John William Waterhouse, who also painted these romantic, ethereal scenes. They're all in conversation, riffing off each other's ideas. It's like they're all saying, "Hey, look at this thing of beauty I made!" and the others are like, "Oh yeah? Watch this!" It's an ongoing conversation.