Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. See https://www.drupal.org/node/2966725', 'exception', 'Drupal\Core\Render\Element\RenderCallbackInterface') (Line: 797) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doCallback('#pre_render', Array, Array) (Line: 386) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 106) __TwigTemplate_4039b6d648e4a30fc59604b38849a688->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 46) __TwigTemplate_d1494d795b4bd5366283e85f3e7729dc->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 43) __TwigTemplate_253b62141ad73ee07345b0067cf59829->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) 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Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. See https://www.drupal.org/node/2966725', 'exception', 'Drupal\Core\Render\Element\RenderCallbackInterface') (Line: 797) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doCallback('#pre_render', Array, Array) (Line: 386) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 106) __TwigTemplate_4039b6d648e4a30fc59604b38849a688->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 46) __TwigTemplate_d1494d795b4bd5366283e85f3e7729dc->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 43) __TwigTemplate_253b62141ad73ee07345b0067cf59829->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/contrib/classy/templates/field/field--text-with-summary.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('field', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 231) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->block_node_content(Array, Array) (Line: 171) Twig\Template->displayBlock('node_content', Array, Array) (Line: 91) __TwigTemplate_fb45c12c057c90d6dad87acc3f8af627->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array, Array) (Line: 51) __TwigTemplate_d0a4e06ec4cdc862487a9e59e7ee55e6->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) 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Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view_unformatted', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array) (Line: 474) Drupal\Core\Template\TwigExtension->escapeFilter(Object, Array, 'html', NULL, 1) (Line: 129) __TwigTemplate_c1babb60e112ad993125dc5af5a5b779->doDisplay(Array, Array) (Line: 394) Twig\Template->displayWithErrorHandling(Array, Array) (Line: 367) Twig\Template->display(Array) (Line: 379) Twig\Template->render(Array, Array) (Line: 40) Twig\TemplateWrapper->render(Array) (Line: 53) twig_render_template('themes/custom/risdmuseum/templates/views/views-view--site-search--page-1.html.twig', Array) (Line: 372) Drupal\Core\Theme\ThemeManager->render('views_view__site_search__page_1', Array) (Line: 445) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array) (Line: 458) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doRender(Array, ) (Line: 204) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->render(Array, ) (Line: 238) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\{closure}() (Line: 592) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->executeInRenderContext(Object, Object) (Line: 239) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->prepare(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 128) Drupal\Core\Render\MainContent\HtmlRenderer->renderResponse(Array, Object, Object) (Line: 90) Drupal\Core\EventSubscriber\MainContentViewSubscriber->onViewRenderArray(Object, 'kernel.view', Object) call_user_func(Array, Object, 'kernel.view', Object) (Line: 111) Drupal\Component\EventDispatcher\ContainerAwareEventDispatcher->dispatch(Object, 'kernel.view') (Line: 186) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handleRaw(Object, 1) (Line: 76) Symfony\Component\HttpKernel\HttpKernel->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 58) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\Session->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 48) Drupal\Core\StackMiddleware\KernelPreHandle->handle(Object, 1, 1) (Line: 191) 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Albert Bierstadt was born in Solingen, Germany, but came to the United States with his family in 1832 and settled with them in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Although details of his early artistic training are unknown, by 1850 he advertised himself as a teacher of “an improved system of monochromatic painting.”Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S. Ferber, in Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York: Hudson Hills Press, in association with the Brooklyn Museum, 1990), 115; their Chronology section notes the first advertisement of Bierstadt’s services in the New Bedford Standard of May 13, 1850, and cites Richard Schafer Trump, The Life and Works of Albert Bierstadt (dissertation, Ohio State University, 1963), 23, for quoting a broadside of June 6, 1850, promoting his “improved system.” The following year he added instruction in “Painting Colored Crayon Heads and Landscapes from nature, or from copies,” as well as “a new style of sketching from nature which can be acquired in one lesson.”Newport Daily News, June 7, 1851, cited in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 116. During the early 1850s, Bierstadt exhibited his work in Boston and collaborated with the American artist George Harvey on a light show that utilized the latter’s “dissolving views” of landscapes painted on glass.Anderson and Ferber, 116. In 1853 Bierstadt became a naturalized American citizen and returned to Germany to continue his own artistic education. When Bierstadt arrived in Europe he was disappointed to learn of the death of Johann Peter Hasenclever, the noted Düsseldorf genre painter with whom he had planned to study. He remained in that city, however, and although he did not officially enter the Düsseldorf Academy, he progressed quickly under the guidance of American colleagues Worthington Whittredge and Emanuel Leutze, the German landscape painter Andreas Achenbach, and the circle of artists around Carl Friedrich Lessing. The hallmarks of Düsseldorf painting at mid-century were accurate draftsmanship and truthful rendering of natural forms, applied equally to figures and to landscape. In the process of mastering this style, Bierstadt set out in the spring of 1854 to explore the Westphalian countryside and to make careful sketches that could become the sources for paintings. In <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em>, one of the drawings from that first sketching trip, Bierstadt described the yard of a cooperage on the banks of the Rhine. Using only pencil and opaque white wash, he coaxed a landscape from the uniform tan tone of a smooth-surfaced paper. The subject might have attracted Bierstadt for personal reasons: his father had emigrated from Germany as a cooper and continued to practice this trade in the United States. Set in a shallow cove, the scene provides a glimpse of local industry that adds distinctive genre elements to the landscape. While there are no descriptive signs of the workshop or forge, whole barrels are visible at left, and others with sprung rims, broken staves, and missing heads are scattered about the foreground. Bierstadt made numerous costume studies as part of his Düsseldorf training and used this knowledge to distinguish the figures in his compositions. Of the four men depicted here, the two wearing wide-brimmed black hats may have come from a nearby vineyard or granary to negotiate the purchase or repair of the barrels. The old stone structure, which could have served as the cooper’s shop, supplies the drawing with a picturesque focus and randomly separates sunlight from shadow through the boards of its wooden awning. Its humble profile stands in contrast to the sweeping cliffs that prefigure the dramatic settings of Bierstadt’s later work. Ruins, old mills, and barns were familiar motifs in landscape paintings. Fallen into decay, they suggested reunion with nature; when still in use, they depicted aspects of times past, or of rural commerce, which appealed to urban collectors. The drawing is carefully organized on the sheet—which is signed with Bierstadt’s monogram on a barrel at left, and dated—and projects a sense of completion. It may have been exchanged with a colleague or given to a friend or family member as a gift, although the primary purpose of drawings made on sketching trips was to serve as sources in the preparation of larger works. The abrupt definition of the cliffs along the shoreline, the effective elimination of middle distance, and the sketchy rendering of trees and grasses reinforce the fact that Bierstadt’s interest was directed to the foreground motif. Although not identified with a documented work, the vignette of the cooperage might have been included in one of the paintings of the following year that incorporated both genre elements and rustic architecture in broader landscape settings.Among the Düsseldorf subjects that included related architectural elements were Westphalian Landscape (1855, Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, Vermont), A Rustic Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 125), and The Old Mill (1855, private collection; illustrated in Anderson and Ferber 1990, 128). Bierstadt’s method of accumulating numerous detailed sketches remained his modus operandi when he explored the American West. The precision of his Western views was also facilitated by photography, the profession adopted by his brothers Charles and Edward. With the destruction of Bierstadt’s Hudson River home and studio by fire in 1882, many of the drawings that he had made throughout his career were lost. Of those that remained in private hands, <em>Landscape on the Rhine</em> is a revealing document of his Düsseldorf training and his early skill as a draftsman. Landscape and Leisure: 19th-Century American Drawings from the Collection is on view at the RISD Museum from March 13 – July 19, 2015. Maureen O’Brien Curator of Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, 'Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process('Reginald Marsh, the son of American artists Fred Dana Marsh and Alice Randall Marsh, was born in Paris in 1898. He grew up in comfortable circumstances in Nutley, New Jersey, and was educated at Lawrenceville School and Yale University. In the early 1920s Marsh worked in New York as a freelance artist for magazines and newspapers, developing an energized drawing style that he used to illustrate city life and its various entertainments. He also took classes at the Art Students League, studying briefly with John Sloan, George Luks, Kenneth Hayes Miller, and George Bridgman, and joined the Whitney Studio Club in 1923. That same year, Marsh married Betty Burroughs, an artist whose father, Bryson Burroughs, was a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.After her divorce from Marsh in 1933, Betty Burroughs married Thomas F. Woodhouse. She later became a museum educator and was on the staff of the RISD Museum from 1951 to 1961. http://risdmuseum.org/manual/241_100_years_of_commitment She discussed Reginald Marsh in an interview with Garnett McCoy for the Archives of American Art in 1977: http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-betty-bryson-woodhouse-13140 In 1925 Marsh returned to France for the first time since his childhood and spent several months studying Old Master paintings in the Louvre. His love of Rubens, whose great <em>Kermesse</em> he copied in Paris, provided the foundation for a body of work in which women—sunbathing, walking, seated on subways—were represented as modern-day counterparts of Rubens’s full-blown female forms. When he returned to New York, Marsh focused his attention on the theater of contemporary urban life, describing the city’s denizens against the backdrop of its architecture and amusements. He recombined these themes in various media for decades, without ever losing his joy in their accessibility and freshness. A large sheet in RISD’s collection, <em>Two Girls on a Ferry</em>, employs a vibrating calligraphy Marsh invented later in his career to emphasize movement. His curved, radiating pen strokes animate the costumes of the shapely young women, ruffling their skirts and capturing the sensation of the breeze on the Staten Island ferry on its approach from Governors Island. Looking out from the railing, a middle-aged gentleman in a fedora takes in the downtown skyline in a panorama that sweeps across the southern tip of Manhattan, from the Whitehall Building at left to the Art Deco–style Cities Service Building at 70 Pine Street.Marsh’s prints document the rise of lower Manhattan’s skyline, particularly between 1927 and 1932. New construction could be sketched from the point of view of Governors Island or consulted in photographs and postcard views. In Marsh’s etching of 1930, the skyscraper at 70 Pine Street which anchors RISD’s drawing was absent from the skyline, and the tall spireless tower at 20 Exchange Street, second from right, appeared under scaffolding. http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366826 Marsh’s concurrent passion for trains provided material for an opposing motif to the exuberance of urban life. Beginning in 1928, he made numerous prints and paintings that featured the trains that transported Americans and their goods cross-country, including one that he painted in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department murals in Washington, D.CIn 1935, Marsh made a large painting of a locomotive in fresco as a proposal for the Post Office Department commission. http://articles.latimes.com/2013/may/07/entertainment/la-et-cm-huntington-buys-reginald-marsh-painting-20130507. His early interest in painting locomotives is discussed in http://collections.mcny.org/Gallery/24UPN47LTX1 which cites Barbara Haskell’s observation in Swing Time: Reginald Marsh and the Exuberant Chaos of Thirties New York (London: D. Giles Ltd., 2012), that he was inspired by the work of fellow artist Charles Burchfield. See Burchfield’s Gates Down (1920) in the collection of the RISD Museum as an example of that artist’s interest in trains.. The Erie Yards in Jersey City provided a convenient locus for studying these impressive machines, including the steam locomotives that served the passenger and freight routes of the New York Central Railroad. In this profile view, <em>Train,</em> Marsh depicts a workhorse engine resting in the train yard. Its design and wheel configuration identify it as a switcher, a heavy locomotive that was predominantly used to move cars in and out of train yards. The front grill, or pilot, is absent, and there is a protective railing as well as two platforms below the nose for workers to stand on as the train moved through the yardRailway historian Roger P. Hensley, publisher of the website Railroads of Madison County, Indiana, in correspondence with the author, described the purpose of this locomotive and identified it as a USRA 0-8-0 switcher.. Marsh’s portrait of his friend Llewelyn Powys represents a more personal aspect of his life. Through Betty Burroughs, Marsh met Powys (1884–1939), an English writer who lived in New York between 1921 and 1924 before marrying Alyse Gregory, an editor of <em>The Dial</em> magazineRichard Perceval Graves, The Brothers Powys (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983), 181, notes that prior to the time of Powys’s marriage to Alyse Gregory in October 1924, he had been romantically involved with Betty Burroughs.. Marsh and Powys developed a warm friendship, and during the summer of 1926 the Marshes rented a house in England not far from “White Nose,” the cottage at Dorset, Dorchester, where Powys and his wife livedMarsh’s ongoing friendship with Powys through the 1930s, and his visits to see him in Austerlitz, New York, and in Clavadel, Davos Platz, Switzerland, are documented in letters in the Reginald Marsh Papers, Archives of American Art.. They continued their friendship when Powys returned to the United States late in 1927 as a visiting critic for the book supplement of the <em>New York Herald Tribune</em>, and vacationed together in Belgium in the summer of 1928. Marsh described Powys as “a strikingly handsome man, a poetic and aristocratic head being crowned with fierce golden curls and a strongly boned forehead … . He was simple and, as he said, ‘a countryman.’ … He gave generously of friendship to me, taught me much and encouraged me in my work as a painter.”Marsh’s moving tribute to Powys is quoted in Malcolm Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys (London: John Lane, 1946), 172. In the 1930s Marsh’s second wife, Felicia, was in turn made welcome in a friendship that endured until Powys’s death from tuberculosis in 1939.See Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308 for Powys’s letters to Marsh (1927–1939). In 1938 Marsh visited Powys in Arosa, Switzerland, where the writer lived during his final illness. Marsh made several drawings and sketchbook studies of Powys in 1926, followed by two portrait etchingsFor sketches of Powys made while Marsh was in England in 1926, see Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel NRM3, Sketchbook #4: fr. 633, 634 (July 8, 1926), 643 (June, 1926), and Sketchbook #5: fr. 677 (August 6, 1926). See also finished drawings of Powys seated in a chair in his library in Dorset in Reginald Marsh Papers Box 5, Folder 18, Nos. 20–21. For Marsh’s etchings, see Norman Sasowsky, The Prints of Reginald Marsh, an Essay and Definitive Catalog of His Linoleum Cuts, Etchings, Engravings and Lithographs, (New York, Clarkson N. Potter, 1976) Sasowsky, 1976, p. 105, no. 42, Llewelyn Powys, 1927 (estimate), 3 1/2 x 2 1/2 in., ill.; and p. 146, no. 98, Llewelyn Powys, October 26, 1930, 5 x 4 in., ill., and also exhibited a painting of Powys at the Whitney Studio Club’s 1928 members’ exhibitionThirteenth Annual Exhibition of Paintings by the Members of the Club, 29 April–26 May, 1928, no. 116, Llewelyn Powys.. The ink wash <em>Portrait of Llewelyn Powys</em> in RISD’s collection is undated, but its pose and costume are similar to those of Powys in a photograph taken by Doris Ulmann in 1928.At least two photographs from the 1928 Ulmann sitting are known. The frontal pose, “Llewelyn Powys in New York, 1928,” is reproduced in Elwin, The Life of Llewelyn Powys, opp. p. 164. A second image, with Powys’s head turned slightly, is very close to Marsh’s wash drawing, but he appears a bit heavier and more rumpled and has a brighter look in his eyes in Marsh’s version. Marsh’s ability to capture his subject was praised by Powys, who described one of the images as “the embodiment of the Powys family [—] the trunk from which we were chopped, the rock from which we were cut.” Alyse Gregory expressed a desire to have Marsh paint Powys again in 1934, writing, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.”Alyse Gregory wrote to Marsh on April 7[?], 1934, “I long to have you paint him—he never since I have known him has looked so striking.” Archives of American Art, Reginald Marsh Papers, Reel 308, fr. 362. Ironically, the final painted portrait of Powys was to be a large, disturbing canvas made by the German Expressionist painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Powys’s neighbor in Davos. Powys’s genuine empathy for Kirchner did not enhance his opinion of that effort; he described the portrayal to Marsh as a “slipper-slopper studio-prophet” and a “fine idealist without a wrinkle in his forehead.”Powys to Marsh, 1939, Clavadel, Davos Platz, in The Letters of Llewelyn Powys, selected and edited by Louis Wilkinson with an introduction by Alyse Gregory (London: John Lane, 1943), 277–78. “It reaches from ceiling to floor and is admired by lovers of ‘modern art,’ but Alyse and I can’t abide it.” Powys’s friendship with Kirchner is discussed by Jacqueline Peltier in “Llewelyn Powys et Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, ou l’histoire d’un portrait,” which includes a photograph of the now lost portrait. Powys, Swiss Essays (London: John Lane, 1947), includes the essay on Kirchner Powys sent to Marsh in 1938. He shared this opinion with Marsh shortly before his death, along with a sympathetic essay he had written about Kirchner. Maureen O’Brien Curator, Painting and Sculpture ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->getLinkInstances(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 116) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->replaceCallback(Array) preg_replace_callback('|]*)>(.*?)|s', Array, ' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ') (Line: 123) Drupal\footnotes\Plugin\Filter\FootnotesFilter->process(' <strong><em>to sit for a portrait</em></strong> I soften my focus on William Merritt Chase’s <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. If the sitter were to look out at me now, across temporal, spatial (and representational) gulfs, she would see my profile as I encounter her own. I set my head high at the end of my neck as if suspended by a wire above and let my chin dip slightly. My nose does not slope as smoothly as hers, but it is about the same length to look down. When I look back, I notice more. I had not given the ends of my lips nor my shoulders to gravity as freely as she does. The wrists were right: they slide off her forearms and release into her lap, her hands cupping a fan (I am, unfortunately, fan-less). Either my chair was too short or my legs too long, but I couldn’t approximate the distance between her feet and the ground. <strong>in a frothy pink dress</strong> Along with those who have previously recorded their looking at <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I focused first on the dress, admiring Chase’s expertise in modeling fabrics with brushwork at once precise and spontaneous. The dress hasn’t settled. Its fabrics fold upon each other to create opacities which are reconfigured as soon as they are set. They are almost always ready to again be moved by the figure wearing them. Multiple previous interpretations refer to the dress as being “frothy”.RISD Museum, Portrait of a Lady in Pink,http://risdmuseum.org/art_design/objects/ 896_portrait_of_a_lady_in_pink (Mar. 3, 2016). Such attention is paid to Chase’s skill in painting the dress, the sitter who wears it becomes little more than a dress form. An exhibit catalogue entry for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> goes as far to say, “There is no interest in the psychological presence of the sitter; rather, the emphasis is all placed on her exterior shell.”RISD Museum Catalogue, 122. What would it mean to make a claim for the interiority of the sitter against the grain of previous writing about <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, not as a way to know more specifically the sitter herself, but to interrogate the suppositions of feminine exteriority as it relates to my own identifications with this portrait and portraits of similar subjects? What problems does the portrait sitter’s interior excessiveness pose for looking at these kinds of portraits as well as my own identifications with them? Why is taking on their denied interiority so desirable? <strong>trace her silhouette</strong> I return to the lady in pink at the shadow under her left foot. I hadn’t considered her physicality until I noticed that small shadow, a space between her foot and the ground. Tracing from her foot, under the dress, up legs, hips, a stomach, rounding her dripping shoulders, I am caught at her one visible eye, her gaze slightly downcast. I recognize a melancholia in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, a melancholia I have previously recognized in similar portraits of female sitters (other “Ladies in … “). Their melancholia is betrayed by feet hovering just above the carpet, a curved spine, an inward rotation of the shoulders, or limp wrists. I find myself drawn to these portraits for reasons I cannot fully articulate. Their indirect gaze stops me in gallery spaces, where I see myself seeing them. They are suddenly close, a closeness that is discomforting yet completely familiar. It is as if I’ve caught something in them, something they’ve caught in me. This closeness I perform in trying on the pose of this lady in pink. Her pose sits easily on my bones. I can imagine I feel what she feels, all but the horribly itchy fabric. I do not witness its movement at my movement (perhaps the swinging of my legs, brushing the rust-colored carpet … ) just as the sitter does not seem to witness it. I do not hear it either. In softening my gaze, I am not here. The gap in subjectivity the gaze is said to represent widens. In this gap, I begin to tease out identifications with these “Ladies in … ” portraits and the ways in which they may touch me across time. Looking at the lady in pink, my own identifications are potentially threatened by this desire and performed embodimentAmelia Jones, Seeing Differently: A History and Theory of Identifications and the Visual Arts (Abingdon-on-Thames, UK: Routledge, 2012), 9.. The gaps, both spatially and temporally opened up by softening my gaze and touching across time, reveal the contingency of how I might be seen sitting for a portrait, here and now. My own interpretive investment with these kinds of portraits in general, and with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> in particular, is based on a recognition of the contingency of our various identifications as well as the very real structures, privileges, and disadvantages such identity positions historically (dis)allow. Perhaps I am interested in untangling the denied interiority of the sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> because I recognize similar structures in the diagnoses of homosexual identifications. In the developmental logic of “Western” aesthetics (also contingent), the proper subject, of which the artist is the exemplar, has a rich inner life. Their fully formed interiority is in constant free play between imagination and understandingJones, 31.. Our melancholy upsets this notion of interiority. I see a glimmer of recognition in the way the lady in pink sits for her portrait, the previous writing about which denies her any interiority and thus proper subjecthood. Am I drawn to these portraits to see inwardness turned outward again? <strong>and catch her looking</strong> The sitter for <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> was one of Chase’s students, Marietta Benedict CottonRISD Museum Catalogue, 124.. As I see myself sitting in Cotton’s pose and taking on her melancholia, I am also performing the stereotype of the sad young gay man. Richard Dyer traces this stereotype through multiple representational locations in which “to be homosexual was both irremediably sad and overwhelmingly desirable.Richard Dyer, The Culture of Queers (New York: Routledge, 2002), 116–36.” By identifying with the sitter in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, I am, at first looking (unknowingly), then with this writing (knowingly) engaging with (relishing in!) this stereotype which Dyer defines as an image of otherness that is complex, intense, and contradictory. The lineage of the sad young man is multiple, with sites in Christian representations, the image of the Romantic poet, the Bildungsroman, the third-sex theory of sexuality, Freudianism, the invention of adolescence, and urbanismDyer, 117–18.. The sad young man, as formed by the pulp, noir, and romance novels Dyer surveys, is often found in his text at a point of decision. The sadness is a result of the proposed position homosexual identification may afford him, particularly in novels from the 1950s and ’60s. These novels propose melancholy as a cusp on which the sad young man is poised before knowing that he “is” or is “becoming” queerDyer, 128–29.. He may turn away from or give into his homosexuality. We sit in our party dresses not sure whether we should return to the party. The party’s music is muffled just enough to allow us to hear the fabrics’ froth. While my, as well as Dyer’s, melancholia differ from these narratives of sad young men, we both identify with this cusp of possibility. Melancholy is the holding pattern on the way to “proper” (in the case of the sad young men narrative, white) masculinity. When resolved, the narratives of the sad young man deliver a reassurance of the fixity of sexual (gendered and racial) identifications. “The world before that sad young man offers four resolutions: death, normality, becoming a dreadful old queen, or finding ‘someone like oneself’ with whom one can settle down.Dyer, 131.” Normality is secured in the “proper” heterosexual relations with a woman. I am troubling these sites of representation and locating my own melancholic proclivities with the <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> to claim precisely what is denied these sad young men as well as feminized subjects: a legitimate subject position removed from narratives of uplift, progress, or errancy Lauren Berlant, “Critical Inquiry, Affirmative Culture,” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (Winter 2004): 451.. Melancholy, through these foggy windows separating myself from the lady in pink, could be understood then as an affective attachment. Through spending time with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> and looking at the rift this affective attachment opens up, I can come to think melancholy not as a psychological failure, but rather as a site of publicity. We can possibly take off our pink dresses. Although it is expertly represented in <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>, the potentiality of the portrait lies not in its aesthetic finery and surface, but rather in its ability as an art object to open outward beyond limited notions of identification. In performing a touch across time and space, I am in effect giving the present back to myself. <strong>looking where I cannot</strong> Chase models Cotton’s form and skin in what has been described as an academic fashion. Her solid gray-green arms and face stand in direct contrast to the widely varied and fluid pinks of the dress. Chase later painted Cotton in <em>Portrait of Lady in Black</em>. In black, Cotton stands with her head cocked, looking straight out from the canvas. Although facing outward, she twists away and spirals her body to her left. Her wrists bend as her hands rest on the arms of a chair. Here Cotton has made a decision. She pulls back into the shallow pictorial space, torqueing away from me. Can melancholy be comprised of these gestures of release and denial? As the hands are let off the end of wrists, the shoulders hang off the spine, and eyes are let loose to be elsewhere. It is in this elsewhere I think I am interested. <strong>find the light in this gallery</strong> Dyer reproduces the covers of the sad young man novels to visually demonstrate their melancholic mood. The lighting on the covers and the portraits carves out jawlines: the young men’s soften as Cotton’s becomes more distinct. The points on their bodies furthest from the light bend toward the background. Cheekbones are made cliff-faces, and eye sockets deep-set valleys. They are stilled in this light, posed and poised, on a cusp of indecision. <strong>stand in that spot</strong> While the majority of the covers feature sad young men in singles or pairs, they occasionally also depict female figures. As characters in the narratives of the sad young men, women are often posited as a (“correct”) sexual alternative for the burgeoning homosexual. Through proper relations with this figure, the sad young man is able to demonstrate he is capable of heterosexual relations. Through this relation, the sad young man is no longer sad. Dyer also claims the sad young man may be desirable to the female heterosexual character. I am imagining <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em> as a cover for a novel about a sad young man. Might he be wearing that dress? Or would we have to add him in the frame, expand the stretched canvas to allow them to share the shallow pictorial plane without touching? How might we rewrite this stereotypical narrative to allow them to touch without the proposition of “correct” relations? Is there a time, now or at the painting of this portrait, in which this narrative could conceivably exist? Has it not yet arrived? <strong>wait for our eyes to meet.</strong> I stand in the spot where I imagine Cotton to be looking. I look back at her, back at the pigment in oil, off of Chase’s brush. I revel in what Dyer terms “delicious melancholia” here with <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>. I am proposing an optimistic mode of attachment in the repetition of our melancholia in writing about it. I am attempting repetition of this affect situated around a proposed lack. Perhaps the trick to performing this touch requires another viewer. Perhaps you can shift around the gallery as I situate myself in the vicinity of Cotton’s gaze. You can find the location at which Cotton and myself approximate touch. You can close one eye and flatten your perspective. You can imagine what Cotton and I may share with each other across space and time. You can watch me mirror Cotton’s pose and try on her dress. Maybe your own wrists will go limp, your gaze soften, eyes slide down the bridge of your nose, as if melancholy were communicable. You wouldn’t notice it until later, until you’ve moved on from seeing me see <em>Portrait of a Lady in Pink</em>: a cold you’ll never be able to shake; a cold you’ll never desire to be rid of. Tyler French Brown University, MA 2017, Public Humanities ', 'en') (Line: 118) Drupal\filter\Element\ProcessedText::preRenderText(Array) call_user_func_array(Array, Array) (Line: 111) Drupal\Core\Render\Renderer->doTrustedCallback(Array, Array, 'Render #pre_render callbacks must be methods of a class that implements \Drupal\Core\Security\TrustedCallbackInterface or be an anonymous function. The callback was %s. 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