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([personal profile] kill Mar. 15th, 2009 02:16 pm)
I am very emotional today. There is no reason, other than that I am extremely tired and that I am PMS-ing, and it makes me act like a petulant child, and everything threatens to spill over. I did finish a final exam essay that I was worried about, but not until about 2 am. This morning I went to the Seattle Art Museum to look at a collection George de Forest Brush's "Indian paintings" that he did in the 1880s. The exhibition presents him as one of the only White artists that worked to portray Native Americans in a sympathetic manner at that time.

I walked into a room, drawn by the small bust portraits of several men, and I turned around and saw the painting that I've put behind the cut. It is a moving picture, no doubt, but my eyes welled up and my throat tightened so fast that I thought I was going to have to run for cover of the restroom, for fear of becoming a messy blob of tears right there in the middle of the gallery.




This woman stands barefoot in the snow on the edge of a cliff, having cut her hair in mourning. This painting really packed a one-two punch for me because it took me a minute to notice the brave, who is covered in a shroud at the top of the painting and seems almost one with the rocky background. Brush's idea was that even though we don't mourn in similar ways, everyone could understand the sorrow that this painting represented. I have to say it was much more powerful in person as it is a very large painting, and that is probably part of why it took me a minute to find the object of her mourning. Seattlites, if you'd like to see it, along with his other very interesting paintings of this time period, they're at SAM until April 25th.


I stayed for the gallery talk and now I am at work. I still have quite a bit of studying left to do, but by this time tomorrow I will be done with the quarter, and though I am always sad to stop studying certain things, it will be a relief. And I will immerse myself in library books. And internet teevee.

'Til then.
.

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