my dad always says “it’s not trespassing if you’re not planning to do anything bad” which as a legal argument wouldn’t get far but as a moral prerogative is completely sound
Anyway here is your reminder that poor effeminate men existed in the 18th century and any reading of class that acts as tho every poor man was a hyper masculine rugged labourer and every rich man was a effeminate fop is an inherently flawed reading of class 🙃
reblogging again for this extremely important point, thanks for putting it so succinctly @carfuckerlynch
One of my favorite paintings at the Portland Art Museum. I especially love the work they did showcasing the historical context.
I own a pet portrait of a Irish wolfhound that I found in an antique shop.
It’s a really good pet portrait of a dog, the dog looks so happy and the artist’s style is pleasing. In the shop I turned it over. On the back is the artist’s signature and the year it was painted. That year was 1986. It suddenly occurred to me that the dog in the portrait must be dead by this point and the owner who commissioned it must be dead as well. Someone who loved their dog enough to get such a great portrait of them made wouldn’t part with it so they must have died, that’s the only reason it would be here. I was so horrified looking at this beautiful portrait of a beautiful dog.
It occurred to me all of the 19th century paintings of dogs in my favorite museums are portraits of dead dogs commissioned by dead owners. That portraiture is haunted by nature, a snapshot of a living thing that is loved and will survive long after the subject is no longer living and the person who loved them has gone.
Then I remembered my favorite Gary Larson comic.
Anyway, I bought the painting and it now hangs in my cat’s room. My cat has a room because I love her very much. I want to commission a portrait of her.
I did not say painter, I said subject and commissioner. Because if you love your dog enough to commission a beautiful portrait of them, you probably won’t randomly get rid of the portrait 35 years later. I know I wouldn’t. Also, it was at an antique store so it was likely purchased at an estate sale or auction. Many things can happen in 37 years.
i used to dream of cataclysmic events like these. the loss of both legs. a sudden blindness. some awful and unique tragedy that would be a way to make sense of me. but now i am in Eskew, and i understand there’s nothing to be explained, i dream of my mother.
