In the middle of a late December day in 2016 in Toronto, I dragged my siblings from our cozy hotel room to the Art Gallery of Ontario, emerging from the freezing and windy streets into a building full of warmth and light. While I walked through the regal galleries, boots dripping, I sketched and took notes on my favorite paintings. Commanding the center space on a deep purple wall, the captivating gaze of The Marchesa Casati, by Augustus John, stopped me in my tracks. The searing intensity of the oversized eyes of Luisa Casati are still as mesmerizing in expressive oil, smoldering under an inferno of brushstrokes, her orange-colored hair cut short and unruly. The figure turns at an almost impossible angle – front facing towards the left of the canvas as Casati’s head turns to look at us directly, loose pastels designating her hands clasped and held away from her body, twisting to her left. There is tension in this posture that is addressed with loose shading, folding fabric implied by broad swathes of brushwork.  Notes from my sketchbook revel in the satisfaction of details — at least fifty shades of blue in the background, the many shades of pale pink and blue that compose pastel skin and clothes, the gentle curl of an index finger, the sharp smoky eyes of the sitter. I felt like I had discovered a present, delivered from the city of Toronto to my feet, as I traced the path of John’s paintbrush with my eyes.  Even now, there is something about this image that holds me fixed.

At the Brooklyn Museum of Art, the work of Lorna Simpson is a very different type of image that manages to be equally as spellbinding. This black and white work, photogravure and screen print, is six feet tall and strikingly simple. In Counting, three images take up most of the image, annotated by a few typed phrases. The first, a portrait of an anonymous woman, is cropped just above the mouth and just below her pristine white neckline. Her skin is rich and luminous, with soft lighting and abundant detail, she glows. Her mouth is set, but her jaw is loose, a mouth that is unguarded, honest. This woman bears witness, presiding over the second image, a small photograph of a stone building floating in a larger rectangle of black. Subsequently, the camera’s eye gazes down over a crown of heavy braids, also grounded in a deep black. White text on black rectangles serve as markers. “9 am-1 pm / 2am-6pm / 11pm-4am . . .” one portion reads, a timetable of uncertain significance, impossible overlaps. On either side of the second photograph, it reads, “310 years ago,” and “1575 bricks.”  Three numbers in at the base of the bottom image form a row: “25 twists,” “70 braids,” and “50 locks.” The compilation of these details makes this work intoxicating, presenting us with a mystery. The nature of the work hints at the tedious monotony of manual labor, seeming to equate bricklaying with hair braiding, honoring the work of black women in ways that are not always recognized. Simpson’s work is powerful and elegant and commanding and subtle, all at once. A testament to long hours and aching hands.While Casati is messy, vivacious, bold, the woman in Simpson’s work bears a quieter power. Her perfectly presented hair the result of hours of intricate work. Without even revealing her model’s entire face, her work brings with it dignity and history and grace.