Somewhere along the way of learning, I found out about the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. I cannot remember exactly where, but I think it may have started with the February 1, 2017 Google Doodle celebrating the start of Black History Month.
Creativity does not really have a kind, at least from my vantage point. It isn’t attached to gender, class, ethnicity, status or wealth. Her backstory and her work definitely are an example of this.
Searching and reading about Edmonia Lewis was saddening and joyous for me. It saddened me because hers was the story of an African American women born in 1844. She was actually part African American, part Native American. This had to be a cross to bear in 1844 America. And, let’s keep it real, it is still a cross to bear.
She lost her parents at 9, went to Oberlin at 15, but did not graduate because of racism and sexism. She moved to Boston where she eventually found a someone who saw past her skin color to accept her as an apprentice, after failure up to that point. There are many, many more details to her story that I will not retell. But I will highly recommend chapter 6 of the book “Broad Strokes: 15 Women Who Made Art and Made History in That Order” by Bridget Quinn.
Her time in Boston was relatively successful and prosperous. This is where I became intrigued with Edmonia’s story. Her Boston prosperity allowed her to move to Rome. Rome, for Edmonia, is where Joy comes in the morning.
Apparently, in Rome at that time, it was easier to be African American. She was able to find studio space, shared and eventually personal, where her work flourished. Rome seemed to be the place that gave her work a look that I interpret as polished and joyful. Her style was neoclassical and, she was also Roman Catholic. Her subject matter was reflective of the African American and Native American experience. This subject matter was not as marginalizing in Italy as it was in Reconstruction America. Thus, Rome, Italy was the perfect incubator for her talent. What more inspiration and aspiration could a sculptor of her kind ask?
For this post, I chose to focus on the sculpture pictured by Edmonia from The Smithsonian American Art Museum in Washington DC. The picture here is one that I snapped to show the magnitude of the work, “The Death of Cleopatra, 1876”. She sculpted this masterpiece for an exposition and, it was shown in both Philadelphia and Chicago to acclaim. Unfortunately, due to its size, she could not afford to ship it back to Europe with her. Thus, it stayed in the US and was lost. Literally lost until an art historian in the making went in search of it and found it in a mall closet in suburban Chicago.
Yes, a masterpiece by a renowned historically prominent African-Native American woman was in a shopping mall closet. In Bridget Quinn’s book, she comically describes the masterpiece as being amongst Christmas tree decorations in this closet…seriously. Other details of its past were that it had been used as a grave stone for a dead racehorse, aptly named “Cleopatra”. Again, refer to Bridget Quinn’s book for the details, the drama and the comedy.
This story is why I love art. Art brings forth emotions, passions and self-awareness in the beholder and, in this case, me. Her story made me angry and feel helpless. While her story was from the mid-1800s United States, how many stories can be told about girls and women from then until now? Her story made me curious and inspired because, if a woman of color in Reconstruction American could prevail and live abroad, then I can prevail and achieve also.
And so I shall.
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