You know someone’s had a bad day when the white lady is crying alone in front of the Obama portrait on the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination.
It wasn’t the first time I had gotten emotional about 44 and it certainly wasn’t the first time I had cried in a museum. The Pulitzer Prize winning photographs at the Newseum have reduced me to a puddle of mascara and snot. And I just keep going back. And again messes are made, authorities are summoned, and warnings are issued. It’s her. Cryface McBlubber at 3 o’clock, just left Tim Russert’s Office and is heading into First Dogs. Could be trouble. Follow the Kleenex trail.
The National Portrait Gallery, though, seems to go out of its way to play with sensitive types like me. Described as “an historic art museum portraying people of remarkable character and achievement,” it’s actually a very troubling place for emotional people. To get to Obama’s celebrated portrait, you have to walk through two exhibits: “The Struggle for Justice,” showcasing Dr. King, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and others “who worked to achieve civil rights for disenfranchised or marginalized groups;” and “The Sweat of Their Face,” portraits of American laborers. If you think you have a bad life under current circumstances now, by the time you are looking into Barack Obama’s plant-encrusted face, you will want to walk straight to the nearest hospital and donate all your organs. [Read more…] about It’s My President’s Portrait and I’ll Cry If I Want To