She is not painted. Look closely at the body and there is almost nothing there — a few soft lines for the shoulders, the curve of an arm, the crossed legs — and the rest is bare paper. Every drop of pigment in this image is hair. The woman exists because the brush stopped, and the enormous swirling mass around her exists because it didn’t.
Then the ratio. Her head is small and sits low and central; the hair occupies perhaps thirty times the area of the figure it comes out of. That disproportion is the subject. Something very large has come out of something very small, and it is still coming.
The spirals are not decoration. There are four distinct vortices — the great one top left, two on the right, one tucked under at the bottom — and a spiral is the only shape that goes outward and inward at the same time. The hair leaves her, travels as far as the sheet allows, and curls back on itself. Nothing escapes. The composition is an expansion that is also a return.
And the mass is not a circle, though it nearly is. It bulges at the upper right where the pigment is darkest and heaviest, flattens along the lower left where it washes out to almost nothing, and sits slightly off-axis. A planet, a nest, a brain, a wave — an imperfect round, which is a far better shape for this than a compass circle would have been.
The light does the same trick as the rest of the image: it isn’t added. The lower left is luminous because the artist withheld pigment there, and the pale streaks running through the dark hair are dry-brush — the places the bristles skipped across the tooth of the paper and left the white showing. Accidents, kept.
Her face is the only place the hand slowed down. Eyebrows, closed lids, the suggestion of a mouth, all tiny and all carefully done, in an image otherwise made of enormous sweeping gestures. That shift of pace is the tenderness in it.
The title holds two things at once. One as in we are all one — and the shape says so, a single closed form with no beginning or end. One as in the first daughter — and the figure says so, a single person, sitting by herself at the centre of it.
Across the range every other woman is doing something. TERRA curls into herself, MILA becomes the land, ALA stands, KAIA kneels, AURORA reaches, EVE wraps herself around the world. UNA is the only one at rest, and she is the one with the most happening around her. That is not an accident either.