Saturday Side Note is when I take a break from testing out products and other beauty musings to talk about something else – something typically not beauty-industry related, at least not on the surface – that I love and that inspires me.

I adore art.  There is no other set of inanimate objects that gives me such a level of comfort and fulfillment.  I know that’s cheesy, but it’s true.  I go to museums as much as I can, see as a many exhibits as I can. Most of the time when I leave a museum, I feel a sort of zen calmness; they’re overall relatively still, and quiet, and give me a minute to surround myself with a sort of “interactive distraction.” Meaning, I’m looking at paintings and sculptures and the like, but in thinking about them – or thinking about other things in my life they cause me to think about – in a space with utter lack of interruption is a sort of accomplished relaxation.  Parts of my brain that are silent or turned off or pushed aside are utilized in the best part possible, while the rude parts that give me anxiety or feelings of helplessness take their turn to hush up.

I wish I could say that all these museum visits and a strong love of art meant I was incredibly knowledgable about art, but alas, that is not the case.  As much as I love it, it takes a lot for to me to become ultimately familiar with a particular artist and recognize their style.  This is the case for art history as well: hile I can spit out the difference between gothic and Renaissance (at least I hope so; I took a semester long class about medieval art, but this was a VERY long time ago), I can’t even come close to understanding the differences between styles and time periods.

Sometimes though, when I’m wandering around a familiar art space, I’ll turn a corner and a piece will completely knock me out.  I’ll not only remember the name of the artist, but it’ll get cemented into my brain, and if there are any other pieces of their art around, I’ll be able to zoom in on them with efficiency.  This happened when I (literally) turned a corner and this was staring at me:

I should note that this painting is pretty huge in real life.  That, in addition to the stark black and gray tones, the head-on stare of the face, along with the mystery added by putting the eyes in shadow – it just made me want to take it off the wall and put it in my house, so this super take-no-shit lady with a cane could stare me into taking care of all of my nonsense every day.  “You really want to re-watch The Office again, Katie?” she’d ask in a dry, withering tone.  “You think that’s really the best use of your time?”  And quickly I’d change my plans to accommodate to mastering the perfect risotto or perhaps getting my long-haul trucking license.

The artist (and subject), as said in the caption, is Romaine Brooks, an incredibly ahead-of-her-time painter.  She had a pretty shit time in her younger days, but became quite prolific as her talent emerged.  She was queer, and she painted mostly other queer women, often in masculine dress.  Interestingly, by the time the 1920s rolled around, a lot of the elements that were formerly shocking because they were masculine (short hair, tailored jackets) were actually in fashion.  So, the audience around that time would have assumed the subjects were simply fashionable women, as opposed to queer.  When Brooks first started to dress this way, however, it was 1903 and pretty jaw-dropping to the rest of of society.  (She designed her own clothes in order to get her “look;” I’ll never not be fascinated by people who go that extra mile to express themselves, as every time I try to thread a needle I end up crying and putting teeny stab marks in my big, clumsy, stupid thumbs.)

Everything in that small paragraph would have been enough to pique any normal human’s interest, but let’s get to the part of the Wiki that made me realize I had officially fallen into the Wiki hole of women artists working in France in the turn of the century:

The longest and most important relationship of Brooks’ life was her three-way partnership with Natalie Clifford Barney, an American-born writer, and Lily de Gramont, a French aristocrat. She formed a trio with them that lasted the rest of their lives.

Barney was notoriously non-monogamous, a fact that the other two women had to accept.

My reaction when I read that:

Natalie is not here to play, guys.  Natalie is upfront and honest about her expectations, and everyone got the hell on board.  Everyone be more like Natalie, dammit.  Unfortunately, this means that I’m going to have to spend another sixteen hours of my life researching her, because come on.

Anyway: Brooks was incredibly ahead of her time, the entire world she lived in seems so rich and accomplished, and on top of a fascinating life, her art is stunning.  The amount of shades between black and white that are used create images that are striking, detailed, and staunch.  I’m into it.

If you want to learn more about Romaine Brooks (and trust me: you do), I’d start with her Wikipedia page, here.  As I said, the basic facts of her life that make up her entry are the stuff of novels – I can’t believe there hasn’t been a movie yet.  There are also a few books as searched on Amazon, but unfortunately they seem to be a bit hard to come by in reality.  I bet if you find some funky little used book store in the cool part of your town though, they’ll have something of hers.  I don’t know why, I just have a feeling about it, don’t question me.

A side note to the side note: I first saw the self-portrait of Romaine Brooks as part of a special exhibit at The Brooklyn Museum.  It is, by far, my favorite museum in New York City, and I strongly urge anyone in town to visit.  The best part – even if you’re not super into art – is that because it isn’t in Manhattan, it’s never as busy as museums like the Met or the Guggenheim.  I’m not going to say much else about it, aside from GO GO GO, because I may do a full Saturday Side Note on it sometime in the future.