Morning Mist in the Mountains - Caspar David Friedrich

Christopher Hewitt
I want you to imagine me writing a novel in a state of trance. I want you to figure to yourselves a girl sitting with a pen in her hand, which for minutes, and indeed for hours, she never dips into the inkpot. The image that comes to my mind when I think of this girl is the image of a fisherman lying sunk in dreams on the verge of a deep lake with a rod held out over the water. She was letting her imagination sweep unchecked round every rock and cranny of the world that lies submerged in the depth of our subconscious being. Now came the experience that I believe to be far commoner with women writers than with men. The line raced through the girl’s fingers. Her imagination had rushed away. It had sought the pools, the depths, the dark places where the largest fish slumber. And then there was a smash. There was an explosion. There was foam and confusion. The imagination had dashed itself against something hard. The girl was roused from her dream … To speak without a figure, she had thought of something, something about the body, about the passions, which was unfitting for her as a woman to say. Men, her reason told her, would be shocked. The consciousness of what men will say of a woman who speaks the truth about her passions had roused her from her artist’s state of unconsciousness. She could write no more.
-- Virginia Woolf, “Professions for Women” 

On Fire by Lauren Cohen

Sofia Fisher by Timur Celikdag for Vanity Fair Italia April 2014

Time in Church by Felicia Forte
You had this expression on your face, like you weren’t quite sure you were supposed to be on Earth.
-- Iain S. Thomas, from I Wrote This For You