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eye to her subject’s. “Every morning I look in the mirror, studying. Searching for the signs of aging. I focus on each new line, each crease. The softening line of my jaw.”
    She fisted her fingers. Jane caught the reflex on tape.
    â€œI can’t eat anything because it either goes straight to my gut or makes me retain water. As for drinking—” She laughed, the sound angry. “One too many cocktails and my eyes are puffy for days.”
    Jane understood the way fears and insecurities could become a great, clawing desperation. Or worse, self-hatred.
    â€œDo you have any idea how many hours I’ve spent in the gym? On the stair machine and treadmill? How many buckets of sweat I’ve poured out in an attempt to stay a size six? Or how much money I’ve spent on collagen injections, Botox and chemical peels?”
    â€œNo,” Jane murmured, “I don’t.”
    The woman leaned forward, arms curved tightly around herself. “That’s right, you don’t. You can’t. Because you’re thirty-two . A decade younger than I am. A decade .”
    Jane didn’t respond. She let the silence grow between them, edgy and uncomfortable.
    When Jane spoke, she repeated her earlier question, bringing them full circle. “What are you afraid of, Anne? When you’re alone in the dark, who is the monster?”
    Tears filled her eyes. “Getting old,” she managed. “Becoming soft. And lined. And—” She drew a quick breath. “And ugly.”
    â€œSome would disagree. Some see the progression of time on the face as beautiful.”
    â€œWho?” She shook her head. “The day you’re born, you begin to die. Think about that.” She leaned forward. “Don’t you find that depressing? Physically, you’re most perfect at birth.”
    Jane worked to hide her excitement. This piece may prove to be one of her best. It felt that good. Later, she would make that determination by studying the tape for powerful subtleties: the way emotions played over her subject’s face, the way her body language mirrored—or contradicted—her words.
    â€œThat’s it, Anne,” Jane said, wrapping the session.
    â€œIt’s over? That was easy.” She scooted off the table. “It went okay?”
    Jane smiled warmly. “It went great. I’m thinking I might use it in my upcoming show, if I can get the corresponding reliefs done in time. Ted will schedule your sittings.”
    During those sittings, Jane would make a plaster mold of Anne’s face and various parts of her body. She would thencast them using molten metal, dripped into the mold. The liquid material formed a lacy, meshlike relief—the organic effect caused by the slipping, sliding and pooling of the metal over the subject created a dramatic contrast to the rigid quality of the material itself. Critics had called her work both lyrical and stark. Feminists had lauded it as both an indictment of society and a gross exploitation of women.
    Jane thought of it as neither—her art was simply the visual expression of what she believed to be true. In this case, that Western society valued beauty to an unhealthy degree, especially in women.
    The visual artist, like the writer, musician and even standup comedian, used her own experiences to say something about the human condition. Sometimes what she had to say didn’t go down easy; it spoke differently to each individual, never the same to all. And yet the universality of the message was what made it powerful. That indefinable something that touched many, yet no one person in the same way.
    Anne motioned the dressing room. “Mind if I get changed?”
    â€œPlease do.”
    The woman looked at Ted as she backed toward the dressing room. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
    As the door snapped shut behind her, Ted met Jane’s eyes. “I have that effect on a lot of your