On the wall of Pierson dining hall hangs a portrait of former Head, Professor Harvey Goldblatt. It is about 3 by 5 feet and painted in oil by Italian artist Gabriele Vicari in 2005. First, I find it incredibly odd that, in a university that tends to support its own artist graduates or at least American artists with some ties to the area, Pierson College chose an Italian artist to create a work to be placed in such a central area of the college.

Beyond the artist, the painting itself seems to me a bit distant or maybe separated from us, emphasized by the incredible dullness of the colors and the extremely academic atmosphere of the lone white man with a thick book displaying Latin writing, a pen and ink. Professor Goldblatt himself has a haughty expression on his face, while looking down on us from a few feet above. If you combine his attitude with the writing in the book in front of him, Pierson College seems to represent the values of superiority and unflinching pride rather than a place of togetherness and family.

The text reads: “Pierson College is not a place made of bricks and stone and mortar, but a state of mind, a great place to live, a family an eternal flame that you always carry with you wherever you go. Pierson the College that dares to be all it can be!”

The vague outline of the Pierson Tower in the otherwise solid grey background seems quite odd and eerily ghostly to me as well, and, together with the rest of the piece, leaves this portrait feeling off-putting and unapproachable.

Davenport acquired two new portraits last year that are a jarring juxtaposition against the otherwise bland buffet of powerful old white men that grace our beloved college’s dining halls.  This one in particular is a group portrait, designed to show diversity in the residential college community. It measures approximately 3×5 feet and is rendered with painstaking detail and crisp color in oil paint. The diptych is immediately visible on the right side upon entering the dining hall, which is good because it is a warmer welcome than the stern subjects we are used to. The piece was commissioned in honor of Richard Schottenfeld, the college’s head between 2001 and 2017 and created by artist Brenda Zlamany in 2018.

The paint strokes are seamless, which creates a strange inception-esque effect as the painting’s background blends almost seamlessly into the actual dining hall. It is almost as though the artist has created a mirror in the dining hall, hoping to reflect not only the physical space but also the diverse community that inhabits it. The figures depicted are Markus Jackson ’09, Carolyn Haller, operations manager; Joanne Ursine, who works in the Davenport dining hall; and Schottenfeld himself. The posing seems to be trying to be candid (perhaps to up the reliability factor) but ends up feeling awkward with Professor Schottenfeld’s hands frozen mid-gesture and the mismatched eye contact among the subjects – the portrait of “community” feels somewhat disjointed.

On one hand, it is great that we see contemporary figures of differing race and gender who are actual people we can relate to in the community. However it is a little peculiar that the two people of color depicted are not making eye contact with the viewer while the white subjects, who also happen to be in higher positions of power, do. The composition draws my focus to Professor Schottenfeld — the man in power. In a less dramatic way than the usual pieces in the dining halls, I feel like this portrait still echoes the systems of privilege that Yale is founded upon and that perhaps these new portraits aimed to overcome. Still, it is a step in the right direction.

George Lincoln Hendrickson

I’ve never liked this guy, though of course I know nothing about him. But portraits are more than just a drawing or a painting of someone. They can also be “a representation or impression of someone or something.” So when I look at Hendrickson and his cold, joyless stare, his skin more oily under those garish lights, and his leather-bound library collection and map of Italy behind him, I don’t see a man so much as a figure meant to be imposing. I think of the artist, in this case former Yale School of Art professor Deane Keller, making a conscious decision to depict GLH this way. GLH is a stoic steward of the classics–in his time the Lampson Professor of Latin and Greek Literature and Chairman of the Department of the Classics–whose unwelcome visage befits the monotonous undertaking of Ovid, Homer, and Cicero translations. He’s no nonsense like the rigid, dense, and guarded realm of academia he presided in. That brown jacket and gray suit combination makes GLH seem like a relic, wrapped up in harsher, darker, more inequitable times.

Born on May 15, 1865, GLH wore many hats, as a classicist, philologist, and an educator. It’s clear from the piece he’s a distinguished man; you’d nod your head without surprise if you learned he studied at Bonn and Berlin. His teaching career at Yale spanned more than 55 years, until his death at 98 in 1963. This stuffy and imperial rendering of the man leads us to subconsciously canonize him; his sheer impersonality elevating him above us as one of the greats who will always have their perch no matter how many years by and how much the campus roils with change. It might be unfair to shove him in the stereotypical “dead white man” box. But Deane Keller doesn’t leave us much choice, much room to interpret. The neat, glossy paints, the realistic proportions, the lack of flair or whimsy, the effortlessly penetrating gaze, everything about this painting is meant to be fixed and immaculate. In a lot of ways, it evokes a photograph, not meant to engage with history like a more fluid piece of art but simply capture it and reaffirm it. In the absence of our own ability to choose, I read Keller’s potential choices. There’s just not much about this Hendrickson guy I can find to like.

Rising above a sea of gleaming dark wood and the echoes of students chatting over lunch, the eyes of Roosevelt Thompson squint outwards, from behind glaringly oversized glasses. Created by the artist Mirjam Brückner, this linoleum print, approximately two by three feet, hangs prominently above the fireplace, depicting this former student in shades of sepia. Dressed in coke-bottle glasses as well as a suit and tie, this image of Thompson shows him sporting a classically 80’s mustache, with an awkward grin. The hanging of this portrait, part of a series of rebirths that Grace Hopper College has imposed over the past two years, was a bold statement. This black student, a noted activist who died during his senior year, would have graduated in 1984. He was the first black student body president of his high school, Little Rock Central in Arkansas. He was an intern for Bill Clinton, and a Rhodes scholar. This portrait of Thompson replaced the oil painting of John C. Calhoun, the former namesake of Grace Hopper and notorious supporter of the advancement of slavery in the United States. The choice to replace Calhoun’s face with that of a young black man is not accidental, and follows years of protest at and over Hopper College’s acknowledgement of its racist past. This dining hall specifically was the site of direct action by a dining hall worker, who broke stained glass windows bearing images of Calhoun with slaves and cotton fields. The college plans to hire artist Faith Ringgold to design new stained glass to fill the currently blank panes. This portrait of Thompson is hopefully the first step in an ongoing conversation of reinvention and reimagining, as Hopper and Yale as a whole holds itself accountable to its dark history while moving forwards into the light. Thompson’s portrait reminds us that who we choose to praise and value and quite literally hold over our heads does matter. Meanwhile the oil painting of Calhoun currently hangs in the library directly upstairs, face turned to the wall.

The portrait of “Rosey” Thompson hangs about the mantle in the newly renamed Thompson Dining Hall, of the newly renamed Grace Hopper College.  Rosey Thompson ’84 was an African American student in Calhoun College who after being selected as a FroCo and a Rhodes Scholar, was killed in a car accident just months before his death.

In response to debate over changing the name of Calhoun College, it was decided that the dining hall would be renamed in Thompson’s honor.  In doing so, the artist Mirjam Bruckner produced a portrait of Thompson.  The painting itself uses a very limited color palette to depict a half-length portrait of Rosey amidst birds and flowers.  Measuring just a few feet wide, and several feet high, the painting makes an impact due to its departure from the typical portrait found in Yale Colleges.

Working from the definition that a portrait is a representation of someone or something, I think that this is a wonderful example.  Portraiture, under this definition, must seek to represent someone or something through an image, it does not need to accurately depict or be clearly legible as long as why it depicts is in some way representative of the suggested subject.

In this portrait of Rosey, the paint is applied in a sketchy way, leaving brushstrokes visible.  The texture is very present, and almost comes across as reminiscent of some sort of etching.   

As a student in Grace Hopper, I have loved this painting since its installation.  I think it portrays a really hopeful image of an incredible individual whose life was cut short.  While students have become numb to images of other old white men in libraries and dining halls across campus, the image of Rosey Thompson in Thompson Dining Hall is a new, albeit melancholic, image of an inspiring individual.

Timothy Dwight V sits in the above the entrance to the dining hall in the college of his namesake. When students swipe to enter and eat for their meals, it appears as if they are being looked upon by Timothy Dwight V. The portrait, painted in 1935 by Deane Keller, seems to be made of oil paint or acrylics. It doesn’t appear to be large in size, but it’s large enough to be revered and noticed, looking to be about 3 feet in height and 2 feet in width.

To me, a portrait is just a depiction of someone that shows the essence or some facet of their personality. After viewing a portrait, I feel like I should feel somewhat as if I know what the person is like. Examining this portrait, I don’t know if it does that job, but it definitely does a job. Maybe Timothy Dwight V was a mostly straight-faced man, who didn’t have time for smiles and relaxation, which is what I assume of most of the white men on display in similar dining hall portraits. But realistically, I gather that this portrait wasn’t to show his personality or that he was a “relatable guy,” but to communicate the exact opposite––that he wasn’t a regular guy and that he has historical significance and that he wielded power within the Yale bubble.

In the portrait, Dwight V is posed similarly to his historical counterparts in other dining halls. He is standing, looking away from the viewer. He is poised––his back straight, his face void of emotion, framed by mutton chop-esque facial hair. In his right hand, he holds a paper that seems to be wrapped around itself: a diploma. Draped upon his body is a black and dark blue graduation robe with a black bowtie to accent it. There is nothing else depicted in the portrait as the background appears to be a deep brown with white haloed around Dwight’s figure. He doesn’t seem to be opposed to posing for the portrait, but he also doesn’t seem to be overjoyed––the traditional appearance for most white men in portraits such as these. The strokes in the painting cannot be seen as the surface is smooth and unwavering just as the facial expression of the subject is still and plain in nature, which is representative of how traditional and formal the portrait is.

The portrait pays homage to this important figure in Yale’s history as he served as Yale’s President from 1886-1899, following in the footsteps of Timothy Dwight IV, his grandfather. During his presidency at Yale, the different schools for different disciplines were organized into a university format, which began Yale’s rapid development in achieving the reputation it has as a university today. Dwight V was a student at Yale and also served as a professor of sacred literature and a professor in the Divinity School before serving as president of the university.

Timothy Dwight V’s portrait signifies legacy, history, and growth. While it may not be the most pleasing portrait to look at, it still holds a meaning for Yale’s history even if it doesn’t mean anything specific to me. Dwight V was at Yale during a transitional period, during a time when Yale was becoming more and more the university it is today. The portrait is a way of commemorating that time period, the legacy, and what Timothy Dwight V left behind. After all, they did name an entire residential college after him (and his grandfather since they have the same name).

The portrait of Phyllis Curtain, Branford’s first female college master, hangs in the dining hall. The portrait, represents a departure from the typical portraits of white men that tend to hang on the dining hall walls. I admire the step toward gender equality that the portrait represents. In depicting Curtain in black and white, I believe the artist has focused the attention solely on her gender rather than the numerous details that one may focus on if the painting were in color.

I chose to write about a portrait that I sit in front of everyday in Berkeley college dining hall. I think it is one of the most bizarre portraits on Yale’s campus solely because of the three flying Berkeley crests that are flying toward’s the subject at a forceful diagonal direction.

After standing on a chair, I read that the portrait is of the head of college Harry Stover Stout and was painted by Richard Reglas. The painting could be about 6 by 4 feet and painted with oil paint. I was not able to find any more information about it online.

The depiction of Mr. Stout is very intriguing. His flesh is imbued with different blues and reds and the stark contrast of his depiction and the dark background is very striking. It stands apart from the other portraits because of the lack of a setting and his candid expression, but the strange placement of the green line that runs across the top of the composition and the flying crests makes the whole thing completely bizarre.

The portrait of Mary Miller, alongside her husband Edward Kanens, that hangs in the Saybrook Dining Hall has always pleased me. It is everything that the other dining hall portraits are not—naturalistic, relaxed, homey. I think it embodies the aim of a portrait, which I believe is to capture the spirit of a person. Merriam Webster’s definition is perfectly suitable to me: “a pictorial representation of a person usually showing the face”. A portrait is nothing but a depiction, a likeness—however, a good portrait does much more than this.

I’m unable to find much information about this portrait, except that it was painted in 2009. It seems to be made of oil or acrylic paint, and the artist is anonymous. Notably, it is horizontal rather than vertical, probably measuring about four feet by three feet. Miller sits beside her husband in what appears to be a cozy wood-paneled living room. A third subject is present in the portrait—namely, the couple’s cat, Rainbow, who playfully nuzzles the corner of book that rests open in Miller’s hands. Miller is caught mid-smile, her hand in midair as if about to turn the page of her book. Her stylish red glasses reflect white, suggesting another light source opposite her. She wears a white blazer and a floral cream-colored scarf. Her husband, Edward Kanens, sits slightly apart from her, hands folded in his lap, leaning his body leftward as if craning to make it into the portrait. His Saybrook quarter-zip sports his college pride, but he has an unassuming air to him, as if he’s just happy to be depicted. Maybe it’s in his contented half-smile, or in his swaying, naturalistic body language. On the windowsill behind the two subjects are a portrait of the members of Saybrook College, as well as what appears to be a small decorative sculpture. The window advertises a view of the Saybrook courtyard, a black bird in midflight. The paint in the portrait is applied rather visibly in comparison to the portraits that flank it. It’s especially prominent on the body of the cat, textured fur embodied by deft raked strokes. I’m reminded of the cat in Manet’s Young Woman in Spanish Costume, a virtuoisic flurry of thick lines.

This portrait engages with a long lineage of Saybrook College pride without appearing elitist or stuffy. The hints of legacy—the portrait-with-a-portrait, the courtyard, the sweater—are comforting symbols of belonging rather than tokens of exclusivity. The work situates its subjects in a naturalistic setting, arguing that the college it represents is a place one should feel at home in.

According to the Tate’s website a portrait is a “representation of a particular person.” A lot of other websites I looked at, such as wikipedia, had more nuanced definitions of a portrait. Some stated that it could only include the head and shoulder and some necessitated the conveying of feeling and emotions. The reason that I like the Tate’s; however, because I think its basic-ness allows it to encompass a wide range of portraits.

This portrait is of Alison Peake Henning the wife of a Saybrook Master who served from 1946 to 1975. While in college Henning created the Smithenpoofs and while at Yale became an honorary member of the Wiffenpoofs and glee club. After leaving Yale, the couple received the Yale medal. This portrait hangs in Saybrook’s dining hall. Like all the portraits it hangs very high up, close to the ceiling, and I would guess it to be roughly 2 1/2 by 2 feet (?).Given how high they are all hung, I feel like the portraits are there because it is customary to do so and not because they actually care about people looking at them. Behind Henning are the Saybrook colors blue and yellow broad visible brushstrokes while she is painted very realistically.

I find this painting to be odd mostly because of her outfit. She looks like she is either going to a opera or a funeral. With that said, this is definitely one of the better Saybrook portraits. Most of them are really dark, but here the blue and yellow really help lighten up the mood of her portrait.