Vioara Bara is a woman. She could be easily called a woman-painter – neutral as it is, grammar would blandly tag her as a painter like all painters, except for that she is a female. Yet, Vioara Bara is rather a painter-woman. The painter she is paints mainly with the woman inside her, as if with an inner, huge brush endowed with everything a woman could possibly mean, from breasts and genitalia to emotion and hysteria, from motherhood to nuttiness. Outwardly, Vioara Bara paints with paint, but inwardly she only paints with womanity, that irreducibly feminine humanity that sometimes makes people marvel as if in face of a wonder, or sometimes as if in face of a blunder.