Posted by: corri23j | December 22, 2015

Review: MHC Art Museum

One of the artworks I especially appreciated being able to view during our “Night at the Museum” visit was an image I first observed and discussed with my small group – a photograph entitled “Wife of the Victim,” taken in the 1940s by the photographer known as Weegee. He was infamous for being the first person to arrive at a crime scene, accident or disturbance in order to capture sensational pictures to sell to newspapers (his predictive skills coined his name – a play on “ouija”).


What interested me was this intersection between what is considered a piece of art, documentation or commodity. When viewed in the context of the MHC art museum collection, at first my group members and I knew nothing more about the image than what was contained within the frame of the photograph, yet it did not appear to be staged or depict actors. Though it seemed to be a documentary image, we still had no qualms about categorizing it as “art.” Upon learning the photo’s true provenance, our examination of it shifted – because it was meant to be as dramatic as possible to fetch a good price and a good viewership from print media, we wondered the extent to which Weegee manipulated the framing and content of the image to increase the drama captured by the still. In my mind, knowing about this manipulation made the image even more “artful,” despite its dual role as a sort of commercial product. Perhaps this debate about the categorization of this photograph only contributes to its sense of drama.

Posted by: romola68 | December 22, 2015

Revisions and Translations

In 1891, Oscar Wilde wrote a new play, Salomé, in French, though of course his native language was English. The theme and plot of this play are Biblical, but it does not follow a Biblical script. In the original story, there is an unnamed dancer who performs prior to the beheading of John the Baptist; in Wilde’s revision, this dancer becomes the seductress Salomé, who performs the dance of the seven veils under the condition that she is given the head of John the Baptist. Once he is beheaded, she kisses the head, but in the end she is punished for her manipulations, and is crushed to death. The play was first performed in Paris in 1896; it was not allowed to be performed in Britain because of a law that prohibited Biblical subjects in plays.

The attacks on meaning are rampant for this work – not only is the Biblical story altered (and not in a way that favors the sexual woman), but the use of French is yet another veil for those wishing to read the play in English. Wilde apparently chose to write in French to produce a different sensibility, a cross-over modeled to some extent on Dante Rossetti, an English Pre-Raphaelite poet and artist who translated Dante and who favored an Italian style. Wilde then chose his lover Alfred Douglas to translate the play. Douglas, whose knowledge of French was poor, made many errors, and although others re-translated including at one point Wilde himself, the version done by Douglas is still used in some “authentic” collections of Wilde’s work.

One person who also attempted a translation was the graphic artist Aubrey Beardsley, who also illustrated an edition of the work. His drawings of Salomé are famous, but Wilde reportedly did not think that they were an appropriate match to his play, and apparently Beardsley returned the favor in that he did not like the play. It was indeed controversial, not like Wilde’s more easygoing comic English plays, and the sexual topic and his choice of translator only served to deepen the scandal associated with it. Wilde was in fact in prison for gross indecency with men when it was first performed.

Salomé, in its various forms, translations, and pictures, captures much about the relationship between art and society in Wilde’s time. There is first of all the love of the exotic, shown not only through the content of this work, but also by the fact that Wilde insisted in writing it in French. There is censorship, by both British society (which would not allow the play to be produced) and French (demonstrated by the fact that Wilde was imprisoned in France). There is interpretation, and even distortion of Biblical material, and society both embraces and critiques such changes.  But Oscar’s Wilde’s place in history appears to be more secure now – his gravesite in Paris is a popular tourist destination, where many kiss his gravestone.

Works Consulted:

Aubrey Beardsley: The Dancer’s Reward: Salomé


Posted by: shannonp11 | December 22, 2015

Night at the Museum: Monday, 16th November, 2015

While I do enjoy the solitude of roaming a museum gallery alone, taking time to stop and ponder each work, there is something about conversing about art that the solitude of browsing alone cannot rival. I always love when courses incorporate art museum visits; I find it incredibly useful to examine works of art in person, having the experience to not only experience their likenesses in a text book or on a computer screen but in really like. The art museum visit on Monday, November 16th surely did not disappoint.

Upon arrival we all gathered in the lobby, where we were soon met by Ellen and Kendra. After a brief introduction and summary of what was to be accomplished, we made our way into the gallery. To be honest, I was quite surprised at the first piece we were given. Titled The Wonderfulness of Downtown and created by Jane Hammond, the work was quite large and depicted a partial map of New York City. Straight away, we launched into a discussion of the composition of the piece, noting the almost impressionistic swirl of the water, the distortion that the conflicting perspectives presented, the inclusion of the figure in the bottom right corner, the crisscrossing lines that ran across the work. However, the aspect that the class as a whole continued to return to was the inclusion of photographs. Across the map, Hammond included snap shots, images that implied the quick, portable quality of a disposable camera. Each image ranged in content, depicting both well known views of New York City to specific, less “picturesque” views.

Upon arrival we all gathered in the lobby, where we were soon met by Ellen and Kendra. After a brief introduction and summary of what was to be accomplished, we made our way into the gallery. To be honest, I was quite surprised at the first piece we were given. Titled The Wonderfulness of Downtown and created by Jane Hammond, the work was quite large and depicted a partial map of New York City. Straight away, we launched into a discussion of the composition of the piece, noting the almost impressionistic swirl of the water, the distortion that the conflicting perspectives presented, the inclusion of the figure in the bottom right corner, the crisscrossing lines that ran across the work. However, the aspect that the class as a whole continued to return to was the inclusion of photographs. Across the map, Hammond included snap shots, images that implied the quick, portable quality of a disposable camera. Each image ranged in content, depicting both well known views of New York City to specific, less “picturesque” views.

After an engaging and in my opinion quite successful discussion about possible meanings behind this particular depiction of a well-known city, we all split off into smaller groups. In our respective groups, we discussed a selection of images that had been pre-selected. I was excited to sit down with these works, to discuss them in a smaller group setting; I also found it enjoyable to discuss the works with people that I had not really had to talk to up until that point in the semester.

Two photographs in particular that our group was given were entitled Wife of the Victim by Weegee and [Lineup photograph, Philadelphia Police Department]. The photograph of the lineup in particular reminded my group members and I of class discussions we had pertaining to the use of photography in service of the documenting criminals as well as early attempts to categorize appearance in terms of likeliness of criminal behavior. The photograph by Weegee on the other hand seemed to evoke notions of the ways in which photography can distort the real. At first glance, my fellow group members and I had trouble deciphering what was taking place in the seen, whether the woman in the seen was being dragged away by the police officers or aided by them.

Once we had spent some time discussing the works within our own groups, we reconvened to share our discoveries with the rest of the class. Amongst the other works were No World, from the series An Unpeopled Land in Uncharted Waters by Kara Walker, another work by Jane Hammond titled Four Ways to Blue, Ur-Mutter #2, from the series Ur-Mutter by Adrian Piper, and Iridescence of life #13 by Binh Danh.

I was glad to see a piece by Kara Walker amongst the group; I had received an introduction to her work through a history course I had taken sophomore year and always enjoy revisiting the compelling images. I was also quite taken by the piece by Binh Danh, a piece I had never seen before. I found it fascinating how the artist chose to print the image of the young woman onto a leaf, imbuing a sense of returning to the natural world on the part of the subject.

Once our discussion drew to a close, the class shuffled out of the gallery, still abuzz with our recent collective discussion. After a few closing remarks, we all departed for the night. Even though this night was quite a while ago at this point, I’ve carried insights I gained during this visit with me throughout the semester.

On November 12, 2015, I attended the “Aesthetic Worlds of the Romantic Heroine in Indian Painting and Poetry” lecture at Gamble Auditorium in the Mount Holyoke College Art Museum.  The lecture was given in honor of Professor Indira Peterson.  The two lecturers were Professor Allison Busch from the Middle Eastern, South Asian and African Studies Department at Columbia University and Professor Molly Emma Aitken, from the Art Department at the City College of New York.

Although the event was billed as a “an illustrated conversation” and Professor Aitken commented on the fact that the mutual research done by both professors seemed to be like “experiencing a conversation telepathically,” I honestly felt like this event was the unfortunate mash-up of two completely separate lectures.

The first lecture, given by Professor Busch, explored themes of femininity in Indian illustrated poetry.

indian illustrated poetry

Example of illustrated poetry

Busch explained how “Indian poets were great classifiers of  female figures.”  She explained the different portrayals of women from that of an innocent maiden to that of a clever lover.

The lecture had many interesting tidbits that associated the literature with the illustrated portrayals, but the connection to the second lecture seemed unclear.

The second lecture was given by Professor Aitken and focused on the hand held paintings of “the stretching heroine.”  She spoke at length on the repeated visual of “indolent female forms which serve no purpose except to be viewed as art.” The  only connection she made to the preceding lecture was the fact that although the poetry seemed to be very gynocentric, the art seemed to be painted from the point of view of the male.

This observation made me think of our discussion of the male gaze and what it means for the portrayal of the Indian female during that time.  The aesthetic nature of the female form is given priority in order to give pleasure to the predominate male gaze upon the page.

Overall, I enjoyed the two lectures separately and thought of ways to connect some of the themes to that of the class.  But, I did think that in order to have a “conversation” about the aesthetic world of the Indian heroine there needed to be more cohesion and cooperation between the two lecturers.

Posted by: shannonp11 | December 21, 2015

Ellen Terry: In the Frame

Ellen Terry OpheliaUpon the realization that Julia Margaret Cameron took many photos of Ellen Terry apart from “Sadness”, I had to do some investigating. Through this investigation, I came across an overwhelming amount of images of Terry created by many artists. I was shocked at how many depictions of Terry there actually are. Thinking  back to our discussion of Julia Margaret Cameron’s “Sadness” I found it interesting to keep in mind Terry’s role as an actress. Many of the photos I came across depicted Terry in a specific acting role, the most popular being her role as Lady MacBeth.

Rethinking my initial reaction, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Terry was, after all, from a well known acting family and a well known actress in her own right. I suppose what always surprises me is that the public notion of the “celebrity” was in existence at the time. Some of the photos I came across struck me as distinctly modern in their tendencies. I was also surprised at the range of mediums in which Terry was depicted. From painting to photography, it was fascinating to see how artists captured the image of the actress within a frame.

Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth 1889 by John Singer Sargent 1856-1925

Ellen Terry Watts

Ellen Terry by her friend

(c) University of Bristol Theatre Collection; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

ELLEN TERRY AS LADY MACBETH, oil on canvas by John Singer Sargent at Smallhythe Place, Kent

(c) University of Bristol Theatre Collection; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Ellen Terry by her son

Ellen Terry BBC

(c) University of Bristol Theatre Collection; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

ellen terry dogs

Posted by: msamblas1 | December 21, 2015

Review: Claudia Rankine’s “Citizen”

A while back, I had the pleasure of attending Claudia Rankine’s lecture at Hampshire College. Rankine read several passages from her book, Citizen: an American Lyric, providing personal background on the images and experiences that inspired her to write this book. Citizen explores themes of race and discrimination in the 21st century. It takes themes and issues that are usually discussed in a historical context and brings them into the modern era. It is this aspect of Citizen, I think, which accounts for why it has struck such a chord with so many readers.


One of the most fascinating things about Citizen is its use of the visual. Every section of the text is accompanied by an image, almost as if to say that for every idea expressed, there is a corresponding visual. For me, these images are a crucial part of what makes Citizen such an effective piece of literature. Going in to see Rankine herself, I was thus curious to see how she would get around the problem of having to read parts of her book without the visual accompaniment.


During the lecture, Rankine had a projector set up, where she displayed the images corresponding to the section of text that she was reading at the time. Before reading, she would always preface the passage with a brief anecdote about the image that was displayed. Personally, having this background information told to me helped me gain a deeper understanding of the images and the passages of the text that accompanied them. Whereas before, the images were a bit of an enigma to me, now I knew the history behind them, which seemed to reveal a whole new dimension of the book to me. Traditionally, I wouldn’t have thought that I would have wanted to have the mystery behind these photos revealed to me. Yet strangely, the fact that I had already read the book before while ignorant of the inspiration behind the photos, I found that this new reading of the text was an interesting companion to my previous reading, rather than serving to erase it.


Listening to Rankine read, I became aware of a serious flaw in illustrated texts: due to the limits of visual perception, we can only look at one thing at a time. We, the readers, have to choose what to pay attention to at any given time. The result is a disparity between text and image, and we experience each separately. Having the text read to me, however, freed up my eyes to look at the image. I could now experience both at once, which somehow felt more authentic. I now got the sense that the pictures truly accompanied the text, making me feel as though they were truly part of the same work of art.


This raised a great deal of questions for me in regards to how I approach books that have a visual component. I had never much thought of how limited our ability to process visual stimuli is. Incorporating auditory elements to the text, however, allows us to circumvent the shortcomings of the gaze, and experience multiple components of the book at once. I would now be curious, for instance, to see what the effect would be of listening to the audio version of Alice in Wonderland while looking at the illustrations the whole time. How would this change our perception of the book? I usually prefer to read a novel on my own, but the exposure to illustrated texts that I have received in this class, as well as my experience with Claudia Rankine’s reading, has opened my eyes to a great many possibilities when it comes to the various ways in which a book can be read.

Posted by: msamblas1 | December 21, 2015

Collage and Fantasy in “Mumbo Jumbo”

As a result of our discussions in class, I’ve become increasingly interested in novels that use images or visual language to supplement the text. One of my favorite examples of this (and the subject of this blog post) is Mumbo Jumbo by Ishmael Reed. Mumbo Jumbo is set in an alternate version of the United States in the 1920s. Like Through the Looking Glass, this world is a reflection of rather than a total deviation from our own world. The world of Mumbo Jumbo is one that is dominated by an organization known as The Wallflower Order, a secret society based on early Christian ideology (details later reveal that The Wallflower Order originally attempted to stamp out the polytheistic religions in Africa thousands of years ago). The ultimate goal of the Wallflower Order is to get rid of “Jes Grew”, a disease that is represented through jazz culture and African American influence. Mumbo Jumbo’s protagonist, Papa LaBas, embarks on a quest to save Jes Grew and destabilize the Wallflower Order. This semi-satiric struggle primarily serves as a parallel to the racial upheaval occurring in the 1970s, when the novel was written (Ishmael Reed has long been a leading Civil Rights activist). Throughout the novel, we are shown various images that accompany the text, attempting to “explain” it, even though at times they serve only to make us even more confused in a novel with an already convoluted and nearly impossible to follow plot.


From the beginning, this is a novel that is defined by the visual. Many scholars have commented on its cinematic quality, with the text even ending with a “freeze-frame”.  Beyond this, it also contains a number of images that disrupt the narrative. Some of these are historical photographs of Jazz-Age New York or New Orleans. Others are rough sketches that are difficult to identify. Perhaps the most interesting ones, however, are the ones that play with the novel’s sense of time, with some of them displaying images that hail back to events far before the 20th century, and others show us scenes of racial upheaval that would likely have taken place closer to the time of the novel’s actual publication. There is no explanation for these pictures, and Reed leaves his reader to piece together the meaning behind them. This is yet another element of this novel that seems to deliberately frustrate the reader’s expectations and ability to read and understand the text.



In class, we have discussed the effects of collage as a medium. Mumbo Jumbo uses the principles behind collage not just in how disparate images are woven into the text, but in how it incorporates various different mediums to create a sort of textual collage. As well as the traditional narrative, the novel is interspersed with stage directions, poetry, and transcriptions of historical documents, many of which do not seem to have much to do with the events that take place in the narrative itself.


This technique, as well as the visual nature of the novel, helps resist the reader’s expectations of how text and image are supposed to function. Throughout the course of the story, we are exposed to images, situations, and time periods that we consider to be familiar to us. When they are all woven together like this, however, it becomes something altogether alien to us. The idea behind this is as follows: we think that we are familiar with the history of this country, and of the racial discourse that has taken place for its entire lifespan. Yet when we are shown it as a whole, rather than in fragmented parts, then we are suddenly unable to identify it. The more visual information we are given, the less we understand what we are looking at. More than anything, Mumbo Jumbo sets out to prove that in order to comprehend something, we must first be made aware of how thoroughly unfamiliar with it we are.

Posted by: romola68 | December 21, 2015

Review of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum

My recent visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston was by no means my first; however, it does represent the first time that I viewed this space with an eye towards understanding Mrs. Gardner’s place as an important nineteenth century collector of (mostly European) art. In particular, I was interested in exploring her relationship to the Pre-Raphaelite artistic movement, founded in London in 1848, which rejected classicism in favor of the romantic and spiritual views that these artists felt were especially characteristic of medieval art.

I have been visiting this museum for many years, though not long enough to have seen the items stolen in the notorious art theft of 1990. Because this is a house-museum whose display was stipulated by Mrs. Gardner to remain unchanged from her original design, the now-missing items – most notably Boston’s only Vermeer (The Concert) and a rare Rembrandt seascape (The Storm on the Sea of Galilee) are still remembered through their empty frames. These vacancies cast a somewhat forlorn atmosphere to the Dutch room, but they are also an invitation to connect this collection to a bygone era, which for my purposes here is that of the Pre-Raphaelites.

The museum has changed since I first encountered it – now the visitor enters through a new modern wing designed by the famous Italian architect Renzo Piano. This new building, which contains a visitor’s center, a café, a museum store and a temporary exhibit space, is an airy light-filled glassed in area, full of vibrant orange and red colors. While pleasant to visit, I find it somewhat of a jarring contrast to the original part of the Gardner Museum, which is entered via a glass-enclosed walkway.


The new entrance to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum

Making this quick journey, I am immediately confronted with the magical scene of Fenway Court, a courtyard of what looks like an Italian palace, marked by gothic arches and ornate balconied windows. The entire three-story museum is built around this courtyard, which was completed in 1901, and is filled with flowers, Roman mosaics, Italian stone sculptures and a fountain.


One view of the courtyard in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum

Seeing this beautiful site reminds me of the Pre-Raphaelite art critic and artist John Ruskin, who in 1853 wrote the important architectural volume, The Stones of Venice. Much of the architecture in Venice is medieval in its structural details, a style favored by Ruskin and other Pre-Raphaelites whose paintings reflected this period.


The first page of “The Nature of the Gothic”, a chapter in the second volume of Stones of Venice.

I have read that Mrs. Gardner often rented a Venetian Palace on the Grand Canal, the Palazzo Barbaro, and was inspired by that setting to create this Boston building. In the 1890’s, Mrs. Gardner brought the Swedish artist Anders Zorn to the Palazzo Barbaro, where he was stimulated to paint her excitement at seeing fireworks through an open window. This picture now hangs in the short gallery on the second floor.


Anders Zorn, Mrs. Gardner in Venice

So Mrs. Gardner’s choice of setting, as well as her extensive collection of early European art, suggests a Pre-Raphaelite sensibility, though she reportedly never expressed such a philosophy. And her interest in medieval subjects is apparent in the Raphael Room, also on the second floor. Apart from a few Raphaels, this room also contains two painters who were favorites of this group. The first of these is Carlo Crivelli, whose emotionally-charged work of 1470 shows St. George slaying a dragon who had demanded a virgin sacrifice.


Carlo Crivelli, Saint George and the Dragon

Another important source of inspiration for the Pre-Raphaelites was Sandro Botticelli. His 1504 painting at the Gardner depicts Lucretia killing herself to defend her honor after being raped by a Roman official. This tragic and emotionally sensitive work was reportedly Mrs. Gardner’s first purchase of a significant Italian painting.


Sandro Botticelli, Tragedy of Lucretia

Given this resonance with Pre-Raphaelite themes, I decided to look for Pre-Raphaelite paintings in Mrs. Gardner’s collection. I found a painting by the important Pre-Raphaelite artist, Dante Gabriel Rosetti in the small Yellow Room off the courtyard. This work was created in 1861 and reportedly stemmed from an illustration in Rosetti’s own translation of early Italian poets. The emotional tone and the medieval influences on this work are striking – it could almost be placed next to paintings created four hundred years earlier. I was surprised to discover that this painting by Rossetti appeared to be the only work by a Pre-Raphaelite artist in Mrs. Gardner’s extensive collection. Nonetheless, in her selection of paintings and in her choice of setting in which to display them, she demonstrates a certain extent of affinity with this artistic group.



Goldfarb, Hilliard T. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum: A Companion Guide and History. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995. Print.

Zorzi, Rosella Mamoli, Ed. Henry James’s Letters to Isabella Stewart Gardner. London: Pushkin Press, 2009. Print.



“2012 GardnerMuseum Boston USA 1” by M2545 – Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons –

“Kelmscott Press – The Nature of Gothic by John Ruskin (first page)” by Kelmscott Press, William Morris, John Ruskin – Springfield, Massachusetts, library system – en:Image:Kelmscott Press – The Nature of Gothic by John Ruskin (first page).jpg. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons –

“Zorn, Anders – Isabella Stewart Gardner in Venice – 1894” by Anders Zorn – Licensed under Public Domain via Commons –,_Anders_-_Isabella_Stewart_Gardner_in_Venice_-_1894.jpg#/media/File:Zorn,_Anders_-_Isabella_Stewart_Gardner_in_Venice_-_1894.jpg

“Carlo Crivelli – Saint George Slaying the Dragon, 1470” by Carlo Crivelli (circa 1435–circa 1495) – [1]. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons –,_1470.jpg#/media/File:Carlo_Crivelli_-_Saint_George_Slaying_the_Dragon,_1470.jpg

“Suicide lucretia” by Sandro Botticelli – Licensed under Public Domain via Commons –


Posted by: Joyce Linnet | December 20, 2015

Picturing Alice

Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is a character that has been represented many times throughout both film and literature. Thanks to the Disney adaptation that, like most Disney adaptations, was fairly unfaithful to its source material, she is often pictured as a long haired blonde girl. That is very much to the contrary of any photographic evidence (of which there is a great deal, possibly due to the fact that Lewis Carroll was very much interested in photographing her, a fact that can be interpreted however you’d like). I have always felt a bit annoyed at Alice’s constant blondeness, especially after I found out that Alice Liddell, who the character was based on was not a blonde. The real reason that Alice is blonde in the incorrectly named Disney animated film is because her live-action character model and voice actor, the then 10-year old Kathryn Beaumont looked something like this:


The classic John Tenniel illustration probably did not do much to help and so we go from an Alice that, according to photographs taken of her, looked like a short-haired brunette girl who looked something like this:


To an Alice that was interpreted by an illustrator in the published novel that the author of the book absolute hated, as appearing to look something like this:

tenniel alice

And further and further on until we lose our source material and Carroll’s inspiration and have unleashed upon the world an Alice that barely looks like Alice at all. The Alice that has been seen in so many film versions takes after the blonde haired Alice of Disney film fame. Even the more recent Tim Burton films have stuck to the portrayal of Alice as a blonde haired girl, played in the live-action film by Mia Wasikowska:

mia alice

Instead of looking like this: alice_cameron

In fact, it there is very little in modern interpretations of Alice that show that she was ever a real person at all as almost all traces of the little girl who Lewis Carroll wrote the stories for have almost all but been erased as the story of Alice is told and retold over and over again.

Posted by: rojas25m | December 20, 2015

The Stillness of Transitions in Art


I was really enchanted by these images by John Tenniel of Alice literally going through the looking-glass .  I thought it was a charming representation of the symbolic journey a child undertakes when he or she transitions from the frolicking days of early childhood to the more chaotic  teenage years.  Using two panels to demonstrate the movement from one plane to the next was very important to the effectiveness of this illustration.  the fact that we see Alice’s back in the image that shows her in the logical world outside the looking-glass acknowledges that she is living this world behind to move forward in her journey.  In the second image, we see Alice’s face and her front foot braced and ready to move the rest of her body through this portal into this new world.  The hand that she is still bracing against the solid part of the looking-glass seems to be the last tether she has with that other world.

I so enjoyed the Tenniel illustrations that I decided to look for other representations of transitions.  I was hoping to find some other mediums that would do as good a job at representing this complex scene.  I came across this horror-show:

My excuses to anyone from England specifically Guildford Castle in Surry where this is located, but… yeah.

The first thought I had was (and maybe this was influenced by the opening of Star Wars episode 7 this weekend) that she looked like Han Solo when he was frozen in carbonite.  The distinct foot is there, just like in the Tenniel, but the medium is, perhaps, too static to represent the transition.  There is, also, the issue with the expression on the face.  Here is a child that is going on a fantastical journey and yet her face is devoid of any emotion.  I also wondered why one arm was raised so high, as if she was reaching for something inside the glass.  Although it miss the mark, I have to commend the artist for trying to depict this transition in a medium that is so much about stillness.

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