High in the frame, a pale fist closes around a rope of blonde hair, and everything below it hangs from that grip: the tilt of the head, the arch of the back, the whole composition pulled taut like a leash you cannot see the end of. The man attached to that hand barely exists here, cropped hard by the edge of the picture into a leg, a shoe, a sleeve.

Below him, Sabrina Carpenter is on all fours, turning her face up and out toward the camera. The expression is the whole argument of the cover: not pain, not pleading, but something cooler and more knowing, mouth slightly parted, eyes level. She is at the bottom of the frame and looking up, and yet she does not read as the one being looked down on.

This is the cover of Man's Best Friend, and from the moment it appeared people could not agree on what her face was saying. Was this a woman brought low, or a woman entirely in command of the room? The picture refuses to settle the question, which is exactly why it would not stop being argued about.