In it, I discovered Bonnard's The Letter (1906), a painting of a young woman writing with a fountain pen.
For me, it evokes the seductive alchemy of pen, paper and an undistracted mind.
It's the moment of meditation and solitude, when the paper goads you to string together experiences and insights; to transform inchoate sensations and emotions into crisp or vivid phrases.
It offers the pleasure of rhythms: the pen's smooth strokes; the beginnings and ends of paragraphs; the cadence of thoughts emerging and coalescing; the dance of style, tone, mood.
And Bonnard has made it appropriately beautiful: the luscious brown of her hair, mirroring the elegant line of her poised pen; the open white of the paper; the tapering curve of her open neckline, pointing to the page.
Sometimes when I'm changing nappies, preparing dinner or emailing editors, this is the delicious moment I long for; this marriage of ink, air and solitude.
(As an aside, this moment isn't only visual - for me, it sounds something like this.)