Look at that single brush-stoke ink painting; how delighted the painter must have been with his work. Was ever there a more self-satisfied frog-body? So content in its absurd silver-back ape shape it has the audacity to smile. Unselfconsciously. It's just what frogs do. Sit by the banks of things.
It's like that old lady on the beach in a bikini who comes out of the water so unlike Bo Derek, full of folds and droops and yet so present in her flesh, so mighty, that that you just stare, transfixed by this being being herself so different from you in your dowager one-piece-with-a-skirt to hide your thighs, arms crossed over your chest, in a defensive crouch, under the too-small sunbrella.
No bells and whistles. Just frog. That's an accomplishment for a person.