#howtolook

Take a close look at this painting. How would you describe the person depicted? What might she be thinking? 

There is a crystal bowl on the table that is filled with molasses —or, for short, ‘lasses–and she has some of it on her spoon. She looks in our direction with a playful smile, perhaps at us or at someone else who stands looking at her. Whoever it is has perhaps implied they’re about to kiss her; perhaps her response is the same as the title of the painting: Kiss me and you’ll kiss the ‘lasses.  What might she mean by this phrase? 

Notice the way the woman is dressed, her surroundings, and what she is doing. Where does this scene take place? What was the woman doing before we interrupted her? What time of year might this be? The arched top of the painting suggests we are standing in a doorway, and interior furniture and decor suggests the scene takes place in the  nineteenth century;, in fact, this painting dates from 1856. On the table near the woman, there are various pieces of kitchen equipment. The cherries,  raspberries, grapes, pineapples, and pears—not to mention the woman’s own short-sleeved dress—suggest that this moment is taking place in the summer. Notice that in the woman’s right hand there are peelings from a piece of fruit she has been slicing—it is likely that she is making fruit preserves for the winter months ahead. Her clothes and jewelry suggest that this woman is the “lady of the house”—the wife of the head of the household. 

Notice the open door leading to a darkened room on the upper left. There is a small table with a tablecloth, some comfortable chairs, and  an oval portrait on the wall. Perhaps the portrait is of the woman standing before us. If you look closely, you can see that the woman in the portrait has a similar hairdo. 

This is a genre painting, or a painting of everyday activities that shows a “slice of life.”. Genre paintings were quite popular in the mid-nineteenth century. Women in genre paintings were often depicted doing “woman’s work,” and the creator of this painting, Lily Martin Spencer, has injected this subject of this work with the agency to look back at us, tease us, perhaps even threaten us with the molasses on her spoon. Middle and upper-class women were the primary purchasers of paintings as part of their responsibility for decorating the home in this time period. Many enjoyed Spencer’s work because it reflected their own world, but with a bit of fun and humor. Spencer herself was a professional painter, mother of eight and a wife, and the sole breadwinner for her family. Her husband helped by stretching canvases, making frames, and taking care of the household. They were a very atypical mid-nineteenth century family.

Think about your daily activities. What might a genre painter depict you doing? What would you want to tell the viewer? Share your reflections on what such a genre painting in 2021 might depict in the replies.

How would you describe this person’s expression? What emotions do you associate with these colors? How do artists create works of art that empower people and imagine a more just future?

Let’s start by looking closely at how this woman is depicted. She is placed in the center of the painting, filling the majority of the space on the canvas. Her mouth is open as she speaks into the microphone she holds in her hand, and her eyes look left into the distance, somewhere beyond the frame. Her hairstyle radiates like a halo around her head. The bright, vibrant colors almost seem to pulse with energy, and the whole composition - from her central position, to the lines that lead from the bandolier-like trim of her jacket, to the vivid colors around her head - pulls the viewers’ eyes again and again towards her face.

The artist, Wadsworth A. Jarrell, incorporated various words throughout the painting; in fact, they actually make up the figure, her clothes, and her background as though they were tiles in a mosaic. Looking near the woman’s face we can see the words “Beautiful,” “Resist,” and “Seize the time;” near her head is the phrase “Get ready for revolution.” These are phrases of the Black Power Movement, which was thriving when this painting was created in 1971. The Black Power Movement sought to fight racial, economic, and political inequities experienced by African Americans, and to empower black communities in all facets of their lives. Jarrell belonged to a black artist collective known as AfriCOBRA (African Commune of Bad Relevant Artists), which sought to demonstrate the “expressive awesomeness that one experiences in African art and life in the U.S.A.” through the use of bright colors and inclusion of meaningful text. The artists in the collective were interested in shining a light on the richness and abundance of joy, beauty, and resilience of their communities.

Over the woman’s shoulders are the words: “I have given my life to the struggle. If I have to lose my life to the struggle that’s the way it will have to be.”  These words were spoken by the subject of the painting herself, Angela Davis. Davis is a professor, activist, and prominent member of the Black Power Movement. At the time of this painting, Davis was fleeing a warrant for her arrest in connection with the murder of a prison guard - an accusation of which she was later found not guilty. In an interview, Wadsworth Jarrell stated that, when painting public figures like Angela Davis, he “presented their positive strength as leaders. During the 1960s, most African American artists rooted their art in the European aesthetics taught them in art schools. In AfriCOBRA we were more interested in developing an aesthetic rooted in African American and African cultures - a new language, which we called an African American or Black aesthetic. Ours was art for the people.” Looking at the painting, how do you think the “positive strength” of Angela Davis has been communicated? What tools has the artist employed? How does this change the way you see the painting?

Davis remains an active advocate of racial, gender, and economic justice. In 2016, she was asked by an interviewer, “Is the struggle endless?”  Davis responded: “I would say that as our struggles mature, they produce new ideas, new issues, and new terrains on which we engage in the quest for freedom. Like Nelson Mandela, we must be willing to embrace the long walk toward freedom.” 

Black lives matter. The lives of Black people deserve to be held sacred and to be protected; Black people deserve to be free of violence. The experiences of Black people need to be heard and believed. We live in a country where this is not the case and has never been the case, and it is the responsibility of those of us who continue to benefit from systems of white supremacy to engage in the work of taking those systems apart and joining in the radical reimagining of what society can and should be. It is and will be an ongoing process; it is work that may never be "finished" and it is work that cannot be allowed to fall to the wayside when the news and social media feeds have focused attention elsewhere. For me, it means understanding my own positionality, how I can contribute to the work of people who know much more than me, and how I can listen to others more deeply. As a white, cisgender woman I struggle with how I can be a part of that long walk to freedom, and how I can be an ally and an advocate while amplifying the voices of people of color. Jarrell’s painting of Angela Davis reminds me to consider whose voices I listen to, when I listen to them, and how I listen to them. In a similar way, this painting asks those questions of artists and institutions as well. How can artists use their voices to empower and imagine a more just world today? How can art, artists, and art institutions be used as positive vehicles for moving our communities and our nation to a place of greater equity? Join us in the comments below to continue the conversation.

Behold the king, Ashur-nasir-pal II, the imperial monarch in his new palace in his new capital of Nimrud! After hundreds of years of famine, widespread governmental instability, and marauding armies challenged the ruling powers, there followed the rise of the Neo-Assyrian empire.  

Imagine for a moment that you are a diplomat from another kingdom coming to bring tribute to the king of the Neo-Assyrians. You arrive in a bustling city, filled with new buildings and the sounds of people going about their day. You wind your way from the lower town, up the hill to the upper town, and through the palace gates. The sounds from the city below grow quieter as you enter the cool stone palace chambers, where you are greeted by walls covered in ornate, colorful images that seem to move in the dim torchlight. How might you feel as you move through such a space? What type of person do you think the king you’re about to meet might be?

The Neo-Assyrian armies - with their famed horse drawn chariots, archers, and infantry - controlled the major trade routes and dominated the surrounding states in Babylonia, western Iran, Anatolia, and the Levant.  Ashur-nasir-pal II (883-859 BCE) restored political power and wealth to Assyria and launched a major building program accompanied by significant artistic activity. This building program, which resulted in the brand new capital city at Nimrud, included the monumental Northwest Palace. The mudbrick walls of this palace, completed in 879 BCE, were decorated with massive carved alabaster panels like this one, transforming the interior with images of the king, divinities, magical beings and sacred trees - all originally brightly colored in black, white, blue, red. 

Look closely at this relief. How would you describe these two figures? How do they compare to each other? 

On this relief we see an idealized image Ashur-nasir-pal II and one of his divine attendants, known as apkallu in the Akkadian language and sometimes called “genies” today. We can tell that the figure on the left is the king because of his distinctive garments: he wears a conical cap with a small peak as a symbol of his office and his status as a warrior.  He holds a bow in his left hand to symbolize his earthly authority and a ceremonial offering bowl in his right hand to symbolize his relationship to the gods. The narrative action of the relief unfolds as the stalwart king marches across the surface of the reliefs to make an offering to the sacred tree, an ancient symbol associated with divine power, fertility, and the ability to bestow life.  He is attended by the apkallu, whom we can identify from his human body and large wings. This apkallu, like many others that would have been seen on the palace walls, holds a ceremonial bucket. Notice the ritual knives tucked into the garments of both the apkallu and the king.

Running horizontally across the figures in the relief is a text which reinforces the importance of the visual message: the glorification of the royal image and the iconography of kingly power.  This inscription is known as the “Standard Inscription” because nearly all the royal reliefs contain it. The script is cuneiform, which is a highly stylized, wedge-shaped form of writing that began in Mesopotamia around 3100 BCE.  The language is Akkadian, which served as the language of international diplomacy in the ancient Near East at this time. 

The text begins: 

I am Ashur-nasir-pal the obedient prince, the worshiper of the Great Gods, the fierce dragon, the conqueror of all cities and mountains to their full extent, the king of rulers who tames the dangerous enemies, the [one] crowned with glory, the [one] unafraid of battle, the relentless lion, who shakes resistance, the king of praise, the shepherd, protection of the world, the king whose command blots out mountains and seas…

Translation from Samuel M. Paley, The King of the World: Ashur-nasir- pal IIof Assyria 883–859 B.C. [New York: The Brooklyn Museum, 1976] 

The Neo-Assyrians feature prominently in the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible as the avengers of a straying Israel.  In 722 BCE the Assyrians did finally conquer the kingdom of Israel.  From its expansion in the ninth century BCE to its defeat by the Babylonians and the Medes, Neo-Assyria was one of many opulent cultures that flourished in that part of the world in the ancient world.

Think about buildings that communicate power in your communities. How are they decorated? What types of power do they convey? Share your thoughts with us and explore the palace of Ashur-nasir-pal and the arts of the ancient Assyrians II in our online collection. 

Look closely at this beaded tipi. How would you describe the people represented on this object? What types of activities do they engage in? 

This beaded, almost 4 foot tall tipi was made by Kiowa artist, Teri Greeves. The opening of the tipi faces east. As we look at it, we are greeted by images of Kiowa life. The images are divided into two registers. The first register is closer to the ground and focuses on earthly aspects of life, while the upper register focuses on the heavenly. 

Let’s start with the lower register. On either side of the entrance, are a mother and father. The mother stands on the left side of the entrance. She wears a blue dress and red embroidered shawl, the fringe of which extends to just below her knees. She cradles in her arms a small baby, wrapped in blankets. On the other side of the door is a man in T-shirt and jeans, carrying a toddler. Moving clockwise around the outside of the tipi, we encounter various scenes of women. A woman with grey hair plays with a small child; a woman in dance clothing leads a young girl in shorts by the hand; an older woman in a beaded shawl, high heels, and an umbrella walks into the distance. Next, at the back of the tipi, is a drum circle where men sing, their song amplified or recorded by the microphone that hangs above. To their left is a man dancing. Further on, a man in Kiowa regalia, identified by the artist as a Vietnam vet, shakes the hand of a new army recruit. Beyond them, an older grey-haired man and young boy stand.

The tier above also continues Kiowa life, but through ancestral and spiritual figures. Starting again on the east side, a crescent new moon and the morning star flank the entranceway. To the left of the moon is Bear Rock, also called Devil’s Tower, and several dots that represent the Seven Kiowa Star Girls, known also as the Pleiades constellation. At the back, above the drum circle, is Spiderwoman and Stony Road, her husband. Above them, a setting sun dips below the horizon. Between Stony Road and the soldiers is a herd of buffalo; the medicine of buffalo is often called upon and is particularly important for soldiers. Between the buffalo and the morning star is the Big Dipper.

Throughout, the figures - both ancestral and contemporary - wear a mixture of what may be read visually as “traditional” and “modern” clothes. Greeves also intentionally uses traditional techniques and materials (brain-tanned hide, beads), even as she departs from typically geometric tipi decoration in favor of these more narrative, figural scenes. In doing so, Greeves intentionally interrogates what it means to be “traditional” and what it means to be “modern.” Yet, as Greeves herself has noted, materials once considered new have since become traditional; glass beads, for instance, were introduced by European settlers, but are now considered mainstays of Kiowa art. In mainstream media, Indigenous peoples are often presented as frozen in time or as no longer in existence. Greeves’ tipi corrects both of these notions. The blending of Kiowa life—historical and contemporary, and Kiowa history into a seamless continuum. It asserts Kiowa ways as ever present, ever developing, and very much thriving. In Greeves’ own words: “Their tribe, or tribes of their fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers; the location of their home, urban or rural; their spiritual beliefs, Native and/or Christian—these things are still visible if you look closely. Nothing has changed, everything has changed.” How might these ideas relate to the work’s title, Twenty-first Century Traditional: Beaded Tipi?

This beaded tipi, commissioned by the Brooklyn Museum, is currently on display in Climate in Crisis: Environmental Change in the Indigenous Americas, where it highlights a dialogue around Indigenous resistance to environmental destruction. Tipis are a type of dwelling common to many Indigenous peoples of the Great Plains, but they also demarcate the land on which they stand as sacred. As part of the protests over the North Dakota Access Pipeline at Standing Rock, the Lakota and their allies, including the Kiowa, erected tip is on the land they sought to protect—demarcating the land itself as sacred. 

According to Teri Greeves, “My tipi is about a Kiowa way of life, passed down through the generations. The tipi represents the home and the heart of family, community, and tribal nation. In staking down a tipi, a way of life is staked down and thus sacred space is created and held. This is what the Water Protectors are doing by staking their tipis down - they are creating and holding sacred in a place that is once again under threat by the United States government. For Plains people, both northerners like the Standing Rock and southerners like the Kiowa, the tipi is the center of life and its presence declares that Natives hold that place.”⁠

Think about an identity you hold that ties you to a larger community. How is that identity expressed? How does it change over time? What responsibilities come with being a part of that community? Share your thoughts in the comments below and be sure to check out Climate in Crisis at the Museum.

In this painting, we are looking down into a hole in the ground. What do you suppose is going on? Where might this scene be taking place? 

The place is New York City in 1907-1908. We are looking at the excavation for the building of Pennsylvania Station. Before Penn Station was built, the last stop of the Pennsylvania Railroad was Jersey City. Those traveling to Manhattan had to take a ferry across the Hudson River. The owner of the railroad, Charles Cassatt (who was the brother of Mary Cassatt, the famous American Impressionist painter), wanted to bring the railroad to New York. A tunnel wasn’t possible until trains switched from steam engines to electric locomotives at the turn of the 20th century. 

How do we know that this is a demolition? What clues does the artist give us? 

If you look at the lower left of the painting, you can see a crane extending into the pit diagonally. Beneath the crane is a steam shovel. Around the pit, we see debris—evidence of demolition. Near the right edge of the painting are broken steel girders. There appear to be partial buildings as well, although they are hard to decipher because they are so dark. And, of course, there is the hole itself. 

What indications do you see of how the neighborhood may have looked before? If you look behind the pit on the upper left of the painting, you see apartment buildings. Pennsylvania Station would take up two city blocks, 31st to 33rd street, Seventh to Eighth Avenue. This was not unoccupied space. It was in the middle of a neighborhood called the Tenderloin, now Chelsea. Part of the neighborhood was known for a red light district, saloons, and gambling. Other parts, however, contained apartment buildings, much like the one on the upper left of this painting, that were home to thousands of African Americans, many of whom were artists and writers, which earned the area the name “Black Bohemia.” These middle-class, African American renters lost their homes and were displaced  due to the construction for this project. 

What season is depicted in this painting? What time of day is it? 

It is winter. There is snow in the pit that has turned gray from the soot. It is a gray time of day, a dark winter afternoon. The whole painting is gray, and has a dirty, gritty look to it. The sun has set, as it does early on a winter day, and the sunset is reflected in the orange gold of the clouds. The bright color is picked up in the bonfires down in the pit that the workmen have made to warm themselves. These are the only touches of color in the grayness and blackness. Billowing plumes of gray smoke rise from the bonfires and from the apartment building. Why do you suppose Bellows chose to depict the scene at this gray time of day rather than in the bright sunlight earlier in the day? 

George Bellows was a white American, Methodist artist whose work can be called Urban Realism. He was part of a group of artists who would be dubbed the Ashcan School. They liked to show the underbelly of the city, the grittiness of it. Here he shows us the difficult conditions under which these men worked. They are down in a pit, working in the cold and darkness. We are looking down into the pit from its edge. We know that is is a very deep pit because the men working in it appear very small. In fact, they are rendered by Bellows with just a few brush strokes. Compare them to the four men nearer to us on the wall of the pit, who are rendered in detail. 

Pennsylvania Station was completed in 1910. It was a stunning classical Beaux Arts structure and was considered one of the most important buildings in New York City. It was designed by McKim, Mead and White, the most prestigious architectural firm of its day. In fact, this is the same firm that designed the Brooklyn Museum. The original Pennsylvania Station was demolished in 1963, to make way for Madison Square Garden and a much humbler Penn Station. The outrage over the destruction of this building helped inspire additional support for formation of the Landmark Preservation Commission, which was established in 1965.

New York is a palimpsest of new and old buildings and landmarks. What changes have occurred in your own neighborhood? What do you hope will be preserved for future generations? Share your memories and hopes in the comments, and explore more works in the collection related to Penn Station.

How would you describe the emotions of these men? What do you think they are thinking about? What does their body language communicate? What feelings do they evoke?

In this photograph, five men sit on the memorial to American writer William Cullen Bryant, located behind the New York Public Library. The year is 1953 and graffiti covers the pillars of Bryant’s grandiose stone monument. On the far left, two men sit beside each other and read their respective newspapers, while three men, who make up the foreground, sit patiently, looking as if they were placed by the photographer himself. The “main actors” are sunning themselves amidst the tainted columns and grime of the edifice in nearly the same pose: knees bent, feet placed firmly on the stone blocks, and their arms wrapped around their legs or tucked to their chest. 

What do you think is the relationship between these men? I begin to contemplate how New Yorkers share space without ever communicating with each other. Although this image is a document of its time, in several ways, not much has changed. As New Yorkers, we can alienate ourselves even in the company of others. In a way, we’ve always wanted or at least tried to “socially distance;” to get some breathing room from dense trains, crowded sidewalks, and packed offices. Graffiti is no longer on the memorial, but graffiti is certainly still used to enshrine identity and voice political and societal dissent within the city. In seeing these men in their captured stillness and quaint idleness, I keep noticing small details- the words “Little Amber” written in cursive and in print, the newspaper the blonde man on the left is using to protect his suit and the cigar of the man diagonally above him. I start to wonder what the newspaper contained that day, what are those men reading about?

The composition of the photo tells us that the photographer shot the angle from the right side of the memorial, below the elevated base of the column. This gives viewers access to all the detailed expressions and acute comfortability the men were able to secure during a lunch break. 

The men release themselves from the constrictions of their suit jackets, curl up their body, and doze off for a brief moment of privacy and isolation. Julia Van Haaften, once the curator of photographs at the NYPL, said it best: “They turn to each other as if following a director’s cues to look away until all seem to occupy separate metaphysical spheres, a choreography of urban psychic coordination between public and private space. This image also stands as a valid social document, with its midday suited men amid the vandalizing graffiti.”

The image, then, invites the viewer to witness a very personal moment. These men, dozing off or buried in their newspapers, with loose coats and vests, and arms crossed, managed to create a private bubble within a public space. A bubble, of course, that was popped once their image was taken, ironically enough. 

The man behind the image is N. Jay Jaffee, a Brooklyn native who discovered his passion for photography upon his return from the second world war. As a veteran scarred by combat and disillusioned with the political climate upon his return (i.e the start of the Cold War), Jaffee used photography to rediscover the neighborhoods he grew up in and document the many facets of New York City and its inhabitants. “The photographs I made...they are of working people and their surroundings—people who lived ordinary, unglamorous lives. They were…a reflection of who I was. To photograph them was a way of ennobling their existence—and affirming my own. Using my camera helped me understand my roots and the times in which I lived,” said Jaffee in a personal essay. 

In the same essay of reflection, Jaffee mentions that he was often asked whether he placed the men in their positions for the picture; his reply was always that they were “found art.”

Consequently, this photograph is an exemplary candid of New York City downtime; demonstrating how the ordinary can be captured extraordinarily with the right timing, tenderness, and technique. 

What ordinary moments of NYC life do you think should be photographed? How do you find art in your life? If you or someone were to capture the essence of life in 2020, what elements would make it distinguishable for future generations?

Posted by Natalie Aguilar, Adult Learning Intern N. Jay Jaffee (American, 1921-1999). Bryant Park, ca. 1953. Gelatin silver photograph. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 79.47.6. © artist or artist's estate

Imagine holding this quilt in your hands. What might it feel like? How would you describe the materials used? What words come to mind as you look at the patterns?

Viewers of this quilt and others like it have often remarked that, while at first it seemed chaotic or haphazard, there is an internal order or rhythm that emerges the longer one looks. Stitched from multiple pieces of cloth—whether from scraps, from cloth objects no longer usable or needed, or from reams of cloth purchased for this purpose—quilts like this one are remarkable works that demonstrate skill in design and in geometry. Whether cut from cloth purchased specifically for quilting or whether the pieces had another “life” before being incorporated into this quilt, all were carefully selected and meticulously placed by the artist Anna Williams, an African American woman whose quilting work gained recognition by collectors in the 1990s and continues to serve as inspiration for textile artists today. 

Anna Williams was born to the southeast of Baton Rouge, Louisiana in 1927 where she was raised by her mother and grandmother, both workers on a local plantation. After helping them in the fields during the day, Williams would spend her evenings learning to sew and quilt from her mother and grandmother. “I would pick up the strings of materials that fell to the floor, and I started making dresses for my dolls using the strings,” Williams recalled. 

While Williams learned traditional patterns used in quilting from her family, she, like many quilters, improvises when she makes her own quilts rather than adhering to a specific pattern. This quilt is made up of triangles pieced together to form blocks. This “pinwheel block” pattern forms the underlying structure of the quilt, but Williams allows herself the freedom to deviate from it with additional strips of cloth as needed. 

Quilts are the product of great labor. There is the creative labor of selecting the cloth with patterns and colors that will fulfill the creator’s vision, and there is the physical labor - the many hours spent carefully cutting and stitching the pieces together. Often historically associated with women (though men have also been identified as quilters), this labor and the creativity involved in the creation of quilts went largely unrecognized until the mid-twentieth century, when museums began to hang quilts as forms of abstract art. Today, quilts continue to be shown in Museums, but are recognized in a multitude of ways - from being hung like abstract art to being appreciated as their own, unique aesthetic and art practice. 

Beyond their functionality and decorative beauty, however, quilts are also acts of care. Quilting is often a group activity, bringing together a community. In such gatherings or quilting bees, the stories shared between the artists are valued and the quilting community provides each other with both social and emotional support. When they are finished, quilts are used to care for the community and become layered with new memories. Another quilter, Lucy T. Pettway of Gee’s Bend, Alabama, described using the quilts she made for her children to lay on: “used to spread down quilts all the time at night. I spread a quilt down and let the children sleep until they get cool, you know. Then we'd get in the house.” The process of quilting can also be an act of self-care and means of expression.. As Williams herself noted, her nightly routine of working on her quilts was a way to “keep my mind off my troubles.”

What other ways can art be a part of care networks? What is the relationship between labor and acts of care? Share your thoughts with us, and explore some more of the quilts in our open collection. 

Imagine you could open these drawers. Think about the physical aspects of opening them: the act of lifting or grabbing the handle, the amount of force needed to pull it, the feeling of sliding the drawer open. What might be inside each of these drawers? Would they contain similar items or wildly different ones? The entirety of this assemblage is a little taller than a bike, and roughly the same width. Does this size change the way you might engage with the drawers?

This work, titled Chest of Drawers, “You Can’t Lay Down Your Memories,” edition number 45, was designed by Dutch artist Tejo Remy and made by Droog Designs, an informal collective of Dutch designers. There are many iterations of this work, each configured slightly differently and with different drawers held together by an industrial strap or belt. Here twenty drawers of various sizes, shapes, colors, and materials are stacked on top of each other and abutting each other at angles. They don’t fit together neatly and there are open spaces between drawers. 

Each individual drawer was taken from a piece of existing furniture and slotted inside newly constructed wooden boxes; like many quilts, each drawer had a previous “life” before coming together in this piece. Remy himself is interested in memory and sees this work as a metaphor for the “memory system.” 

In many ways, the work offers the viewer more questions than it does answers. What might the relationship be between the phrase in the title (“You Can’t Lay Down Your Memories”) and the artwork itself? What does the size of this work suggest about memory? Does the use of drawers suggest easy access to memories or does it control access to them? Share your reflections on the role of memory in art with art, and compare Remy’s work to other works about memory in our collection.