Feminist Hands

I can't brush my teeth without thinking of the Tomforde Farm. I can't eat popcorn without thinking about a former colleague, Max. And I can't draw hands without thinking about my high school art teacher, Mrs. Hansen, who does have a first name but because I didn't ask her permission to write this I'm omitting it. Cause you can't find anything on the internet.

While doing a unit on statuary in art history (I think? Sorry, Mrs. Hansen, high school was many eons ago) she pointed out that statues of women tend to be missing their hands and arms. There was more to it, and I'm going to botch this, probably, but some feminist scholars allege that this was a way of signifying the helplessness of women. 

As we watch many of our elected officials try to strip women of their rights of self determination, I think of Mrs. Hansen, and feminist hands, and I hope you are registered to vote. And have the requisite State ID that will enable you to do so (you may insert your own eye roll here). 

Oh, and I really, really have difficulty drawing hands of either gender - so people hold lots of bouquets, tuck their hands behind their back or into pockets, or otherwise hide their fingers and I have no intention of signifying a state of oppression or helplessness. 

Bea Arthur, a little chunky

Bea Arthur is, of course, deceased, and while she was a tall lady, she sure wasn't chunky. So I can't figure out why the society matron I doodled looks, for all the world, like a matronly Bea Arthur.

She gave us Maude and she gave us Dorothy and I gave her wide hips. I'm sorry. You only helped shape my view of the world in your awesome, brightly colored and oversized sweatshirts with the weirdest collars anyone has ever seen. Oh, and you took no crap from anyone, even Ma.

There's also a penitent with a disfigured face and strange haired military officer. So I might need to draw more from life and less from imagination.