by Frank Bernard Dicksee.
And I'm approaching the end of mine. Writing the novel that has consumed all my free time for the past however-many months.
This painting makes me think about two of my characters, Anselm and Martha. The man is on his knees, but the woman has that it's-not-you-it's-me expression going on. He's promising her the stars when all she wants is the moon. He can't win her, no matter how hard he tries. Even worse, she's being 'nice' to him. :(
Unrequited love sucks.
Is it wrong that I'm this attached to my anti-hero? His suffering gives me no joy.