War horse
My daughter Noble was home from college for the weekend, and knowing that it would likely be the only time I'd get to spend with her, I drove her back to Philadelphia today. As we rolled down the Ben Franklin Parkway verging on school, she mentioned that she'd spent six hours in the Philadelphia Museum of Art last week, drawing armor from the collection. I was impressed.
After dropping her off, I had intended to drive straight back home and get to work. But navigating traffic back up the Parkway, dead on axis with the temple like museum on its high podium, I suddenly thought that I'd take advantage of my rarely used membership, and go in with sketchbook and pencils to do a shorter version of what Noble had done in those medieval armor collections. I wheeled the car around, found a spot to park in the garage, and walked up to the west entrance.
The galleries were unexpectedly crowded - not ideal for undisturbed drawing or unobstructed views, but I was there and wasn't about to quit before starting. For reasons only partly obscure, I found myself transfixed by an armored black horse carrying a fully armored rider. I found myself a spot next to another display, sat cross legged on the terrazzo floor, and tried not to be annoyed by people leaning over me to see what I was doing, or people standing in front of me, posing for photos with the 16th century relics. I managed to crank out one drawing before my back was too sore and my patience worn too thin.
Because of where I began on the page and the relative scale of the sketch, the rider's head is not in the picture. It is a drawing of a war horse, carrying its headless burden.
This evening, back home in my studio, I find that depiction ironically appropriate, as I identify with that black stallion. I can't help wondering if he wouldn't have liked to throw his load and trample it flat before shucking his own coat of armor to run off to freedom, a beast of burden and instrument of rage never again.
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