In Mondrian’s studio the doorway never flinches. A straw hat retreats into shadow hiding from the sun’s blanching heat. Walls white, table white and a vase glazed a muted gray. Inside, a flower has forgotten its name and practices the art of dying. Where are the masking tape and rulers, the exacting mathematical graphs? Instead, a chrysanthemum and a woman’s breast, skin partitioned by black lines. Her nose equals a perfect red square, hips, flawless rectangles in blue. A door is open, a man is missing and here, a woman in plain view.