On representation, accessibility, and the baby painting
Hello everyone,
I hope this message finds you well. Here in St. Louis, the weather is starting to show signs of spring after a few cold and grey months, and I’m finding myself thinking about the complexities of the life cycle, that we all have to rest for a while before new growth can emerge. I’ve been continuing my drawing practice, looking closely at flowers early in the morning, observing their own relatively short life cycle happening in front of me in real time. This practice has allowed me to reflect on things that are sometimes difficult to comprehend when thought about directly: time, impermanence, love, and mortality.
As I’ve been making these drawings, I’ve been thinking about how they’re a reflection of my own mental and emotional state. The last year has been full of growth for me, both personally and professionally, and I’ve been moving towards living with more presence and intention. I’ve been placing value on time to rest and recharge, and I’ve been finding inspiration from the natural world around me, dormant these past few months in preparation for the new life that will soon come.
When my daughter Elinor was little, we spent several days a week together. We had an elaborate circuit of kiddo activities, visiting four or five places around town each week. One of our regular stops was the St. Louis Art Museum. Although I have always been a devoted museum attendee, visiting art museums with a toddler was an entirely different experience. We would go weekly, usually at 10 am on a Tuesday or Wednesday, when the museum was quiet. In St. Louis, our museums are free, which makes them so much more accessible. Throughout Elinor’s baby and toddler years, I felt free to drop by with her often, knowing that if she started to fuss or needed something different, we would just leave.
Elinor took to the museum right away. We would often simply walk around, experiencing the space itself in equal measure to the work on the wall. The St. Louis Art Museum has the largest collection of Max Beckmann’s work outside of Germany, and there is a central gallery full of Beckmann paintings. Notably for a young child, the gallery also has six leather couches, and we sometimes spent our whole visit moving from one to the other, trying them all out and playing games.
From our very first visit, Elinor was drawn to two pieces in particular. The first is a bronze sculpture titled Infant, from Egypt in the mid-1st century BC–mid-1st century AD. Between us, this piece became simply “the baby sculpture” and we would begin each trip to the museum by visiting it. The second is a painting by Adolphe-William Bouguereau from 1860 called Peace, which became, not surprisingly, “the baby painting.” Elinor would excitedly visit these two pieces first, standing in front of each for quite a while. Although I’ve spent the majority of my career and the better part of my life thinking and talking about the importance of representation, it was a profound experience for me to watch her respond to these two pieces. Out of all the work in this rather large museum, she gravitated towards the two that most closely resembled herself. Over the past several years, the baby painting has also become a kind of touchstone: I have a series of photographs of her standing in front of it, her changing size marking the passage of time.
As she started getting bigger, she began asking more questions about the art on the walls, which led to meaningful conversations. She developed a fondness for video work and always asked to go to the new media gallery to see what was on view. She now walks into the museum like she belongs there; it is a place of familiarity and comfort for her, as it is for me. After spending ten years living in a city with free (and wonderful) museums, I am even more passionate than I was before about museums being accessible and welcoming places. Visiting a place frequently, without a sense of scarcity or preciousness, changes your relationship to it.
On the inspiration front: I’ve recently read “The Right to Write” by Julia Cameron as well as several books by yung pueblo, including “Inward,” “Clarity & Connection,” and “Lighter.” I’ve also been enjoying the music of William Prince.
Soon, spring will begin to emerge. I will make drawings of new things as they emerge from the ground, and I will watch Elinor continue to grow. I’ll start making photographs outside again, paying careful attention on my daily walks to the foliage and light with portraits in mind. I will be grateful for the warmth and the longer days. And, of course, from time to time, we will visit the baby painting.
Until next time, friends,
xo,
Jess