How do I love you, Mary Cassatt, let me count the ways.

I love your paintings of mothers with their children.  The mother’s glance, the child’s expression, both seem so spontaneous, so momentary.  However did you capture that in oil, which takes so long and is so painstaking?

I adore your portrait of your mother reading Le Figaro in your Paris garden.  What can I say, I can see your affection for her.

I am bewitched by  your striking, elegant woman at the theatre. Your beautiful canvas is layered by your humor, as you present her being spied upon by a man, perhaps an admirer?  In your composition and color palette, I can see how much you admired the paintings of your friend, Edgar Degas.

I am very fond of your images of infants at the bath. You sure don’t take the easy way out when it comes to pattern.

I idolize your depictions of art lovers in a gallery.  I feel as if I can see the wheels turning in the mind of  the woman in the tobacco-brown suit.  Does her companion have a secret, or has she just read something new in her brochure?

I so appreciate your images of ladies at tea. Who else would portray a lady with her teacup covering part of her face?  You so captured moments of real life. While the scene seems so genteel, I sense an underlying tension between the two women.  I wonder what was said that caused these people to be so stressed. Am I reading in too much?  Maybe.

I am besotted with your images of little girls being little girls.  All arms, legs and plenty of insouciance. I think I might love you for this one most of all.

I am enchanted with your masterful prints that testify to your love of Japanese woodblock prints.

I can’t get enough of your painting of a baby reaching for an apple.

And I just have no words for this child in her straw hat, because I love it so much.  There can be no question, I love you most of all for this painting.

Assurement, Mary Cassatt, je t’aime!

Au revoir!