was in Seattle's Frye Art Museum that I first found endless love with a work of art. My mother often took us there to look at the landscapes and portraits bequeathed by the culturally aspirational owner of a local meatpacking plant. The canvas that fascinated me was one of the sentimental painter William Bougeureau's many little shepherdesses, chaste yet Lolita-like figures that signified Victorian innocence. My sad shoeless girl, all alone in a vast, rocky landscape, seemed to know the unspoken yearning my middle school melancholia. Her beauty was austere and aloof, but through a trick of perspective, her eyes seemed to follow me. I felt that she had a secret that was unspeakable, but also magically mine. TBC Here.
No comments:
Post a Comment