William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 mocks the conventions of the showy and flowery courtly sonnets in its realistic portrayal of his mistress.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

My photograph, straining against the limitations of its taker (or lens), isn’t exactly mocking the realistic conventions of the medium. But it does look sort of painterly, as even my artist wife might admit.

Whether any of that means anything, much less makes it art, only explains perhaps why the allusion popped into my head. I just thought it (the title) was funny, and (it, the image) looked “pretty.”