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What gives Leandro Comrie's "King" the right to rule? Is it his raiment, decorated with scores of curlicues of white and royal purple paint, signifying motion and activity and cinched savagely at the waist? Is it his arms, long enough to touch his ankles, formidable and thick, draped at his sides in a gesture of ease and preternatural balance? How about the magenta halo behind his head, bright and electric, suggestive of sanctification in some other world? Or could it be the face, with its crown of wavy hair, full lips and slanted white eyebrows, and lower jaw squared against all adversaries. He looks confident and ready. But the crimson dot he stands on and surveys is barely big enough to contain his boat-like shoes.
