Curtains, blowing. Reminiscent of that passage in Gatsby:
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
A fantastic painting, soon to be the book cover for the very first book
of a long and illustrious literary career.
of a long and illustrious literary career.
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