I do not like Degas. Consider these faces. It may be a commonplace- I got it from Alasdair Gray- that you cannot paint a facial expression that you cannot wear, so these are he.
I had noticed it, but could not deny the feeling with this actress. The face is hard. The lips, sexual red, are a gash, the eyes expressionless. She is in her dressing room, perhaps checking make-up, and still.
The café singer peers out at us through thick, fleshy eyelids. Her mouth is twisted. I do not understand those parallel stabs of white, but they cross her out. She is bovine.
This singer too, forced to use sex, imbued with the disgust one feels immediately after masturbating.
And the audience.
“People are like that,” Degas might say. Not all of us.