Alice Brooks wanders into a garden courtyard of cobblestones and trailing greenery, framed by a terracotta urn and the soft hush of late afternoon sun. Willowy and porcelain pale, her copper-red hair falling long and loose to her waist, she is poured into a short black bodycon dress with spaghetti straps and a sweetheart neckline, sheer black stockings running the length of her slender legs and open-toe platform sandals tapping lightly on the stone. The overhead canopy of foliage throws dappled light across her luminous shoulders and the soft, creamy curve of her full-bosomed cleavage above the neckline.

Alice drifts through the arches as if walking a private film set, pausing to tip her face to the sun, to tug a strand of red hair across her cheek, to press her hand to the warm stone pillar. Midway through she slips the straps from her shoulders and eases the dress down to her waist, the black fabric gathering at her hips as the sun catches her full, rounded breasts and the delicate line of her ribs. By the late frames the dress is bunched low and a red garter peeks from the top of her stockings, her statuesque silhouette stretched tall under the hanging blossoms. The whole set has the quiet, painterly beauty of a sunlit afternoon stolen for herself.