There’s a painting from 1857 called Nameless and Friendless. It’s by Emily Mary Osborn and depicts people in an art dealer’s shop like a theatrical scene. Rain pours outside and men are up on ladders, writing down records, or wearing top hats with their faces lit up as they peer over newspapers, all directing our gaze to the main event.
Standing in the middle is a woman in a Victorian dress. She looks forlorn, worn-down, helpless, exhausted. A small boy stands by her side, far more upright, with rosy cheeks in drastic contrast to hers, which are ghostly pale. She’s waiting nervously for a response from an older man, who stands behind a bureau, inspecting a small canvas. Could this belong to her, or could this be by her? Judging by his curious look, he isn’t impressed.
