The result: a woman with birds wings over her eyes. Glossy lipstick. Fingers painting with metallic paint. A full and shapely nose. A few hairs rising up from her thick, black hair.
I get that she is defending herself, or transforming. Shades of Ovid. But the image lacks some element of tension, some direction, to give me something else to hold, to ponder, to consider. It confronts me but withholds. It is technically interesting but stops short of sharing with me. I want it to give to me, but the love seems to have gone into the technique instead of truly offered.
This may, however, be a part of a larger series. The context may be missing.
What do I see?
Poor dead bird. Poor dead all of us. Poor dead past. We are victims of a bludgeoning, brutal world. Perhaps this is what is suggested in the title: Hide Under the Shadow of Your Wings [under the shadow of neither man nor of God].
The old verities are gone.
You are your own shadow-maker.