He came, he looked, and he pronounced. Six figures: the tallest boy showing something to five others grouped around him; a street in the distance, two or three little girls walking away. Julian said to remove the lamp-post from the left corner — he is right about that. He found it original, amusing, nearly certain of success; he liked the principal child particularly, that quality of a gavroche tipping into adolescence, the moment just before the street swallows him. For the Saintes femmes I explained what I am doing — the twilight hour, blurred contours, the retreat into obscurity and grief. The Magdalene in profile, elbow on knee, staring at the tomb; the other Mary standing but collapsed upon herself, that explosion of exhaustion and tears and despair all at once. Is it possible to paint a woman's stupor, her revolt, her utter devastation? Julian thinks so. He predicts an honourable mention as a certainty. The Saintes femmes is already whole in my head — entirely composed, entirely felt, from the moment I first conceived it.