Sara Jacobsen, 19, grew up eating family dinners beneath a stunning Native American robe.
Not
that she gave it much thought. Until, that is, her senior year of high
school, when she saw a picture of a strikingly similar robe in an art
history class.
The teacher told the class about how the robe was
used in spiritual ceremonies, Sara Jacobsen said. “I started to wonder
why we have it in our house when we’re not Native American.”
She said she asked her dad a few questions about this robe. Her dad, Bruce Jacobsen, called that an understatement.
“I
felt like I was on the wrong side of a protest rally, with terms like
‘cultural appropriation’ and ‘sacred ceremonial robes’ and ‘completely
inappropriate,’ and terms like that,” he said.
“I got defensive
at first, of course,” he said. “I was like, ‘C’mon, Sara! This is more
of the political stuff you all say these days.’”
But Sara didn’t
back down. “I feel like in our country there are so many things that
white people have taken that are not theirs, and I didn’t want to
continue that pattern in our family,” she said.
The robe had been
a centerpiece in the Jacobsen home. Bruce Jacobsen bought it from a
gallery in Pioneer Square in 1986, when he first moved to Seattle. He
had wanted to find a piece of Native art to express his appreciation of
the region.
The Chilkat robe that hung over the Jacobsen dining room table for years. Credit Courtesy of the Jacobsens
“I just thought it was so beautiful, and it was like nothing I had seen before,” Jacobsen said.
The
robe was a Chilkat robe, or blanket, as it’s also known. They are woven
by the Tlingit, Haida and Tsimshian peoples of Alaska and British
Columbia and are traditionally made from mountain goat wool. The tribal
or clan origin of this particular 6-foot-long piece was unclear, but it
dated back to around 1900 and was beautifully preserved down to its long
fringe.
“It’s a completely symmetric pattern of geometric
shapes, and also shapes that come from the culture,” like birds,
Jacobsen said. “And then it’s just perfectly made — you can see no seams
in it at all.”
Jacobsen hung the robe on his dining room wall.
After
more needling from Sara, Jacobsen decided to investigate her claims. He
emailed experts at the Burke Museum, which has a huge collection of
Native American art and artifacts.
“I got this eloquent email
back that said, ‘We’re not gonna tell you what to go do,’ but then they
confirmed what Sara said: It was an important ceremonial piece, that it
was usually owned by an entire clan, that it would be passed down
generation to generation, and that it had a ton of cultural significance
to them.“
Jacobsen
says he was a bit disappointed to learn that his daughter was right
about his beloved Chilkat robe. But he and his wife Gretchen now no
longer thought of the robe as theirs. Bruce Jacobsen asked the curators
at the Burke Museum for suggestions of institutions that would do the
Chilkat robe justice. They told him about the Sealaska Heritage
Institute in Juneau.
When Jacobsen emailed, SHI Executive
Director Rosita Worl couldn’t believe the offer. “I was stunned. I was
shocked. I was in awe. And I was so grateful to the Jacobsen family.”
Worl said the robe has a huge monetary value. But that’s not why it’s precious to local tribes.
“It’s
what we call ‘atoow’: a sacred clan object,” she said. “Our beliefs are
that it is imbued with the spirit of not only the craft itself, but
also of our ancestors. We use [Chilkat robes] in our ceremonies when we
are paying respect to our elders. And also it unites us as a people.”
Since
the Jacobsens returned the robe to the institute, Worl said, master
weavers have been examining it and marveling at the handiwork. Chilkat
robes can take a year to make – and hardly anyone still weaves them.
“Our
master artist, Delores Churchill, said it was absolutely a spectacular
robe. The circles were absolutely perfect. So it does have that
importance to us that it could also be used by our younger weavers to
study the art form itself.”
Worl said private collectors hardly ever return anything to her organization. The federal Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act requires
museums and other institutions that receive federal funding to
repatriate significant cultural relics to Native tribes. But no such law
exists for private collectors.
Bruce
and Gretchen Jacobsen hold the Chilkat robe they donated to the
Sealaska Heritage Institute as Joe Zuboff, Deisheetaan, sings and drums
and Brian Katzeek (behind robe) dances during the robe’s homecoming
ceremony Saturday, August 26, 2017. Credit NOBU KOCH / SEALASKA HERITAGE INSTITUTE
Worl
says the institute is lobbying Congress to improve the chances of
getting more artifacts repatriated. “We are working on a better tax
credit system that would benefit collectors so that they could be
compensated,” she said.
Worl hopes stories like this will encourage people to look differently at the Native art and artifacts they possess.
The Sealaska Heritage Institute welcomed home the Chilkat robe in a two-hour ceremony over the weekend. Bruce and Gretchen Jacobsen traveled to Juneau to celebrate the robe’s homecoming.
Really glad that this is treated as hard hitting news, no really, I am
“True story: His Name is Robert Downey Jr.” by Dana Reinhardt
I’m willing to go out on a limb here and guess that most stories of kindness do not begin with drug addicted celebrity bad boys.
Mine does.
His name is Robert Downey Jr.
You’ve probably heard of him. You may or may not be a fan, but I am, and I was in the early 90’s when this story takes place.
It was at a garden party for the ACLU of Southern California. My stepmother was the executive director, which is why I was in attendance without having to pay the $150 fee. It’s not that I don’t support the ACLU, it’s that I was barely twenty and had no money to speak of.
I was escorting my grandmother. There isn’t enough room in this essay to explain to you everything she was, I would need volumes, so for the sake of brevity I will tell you that she was beautiful even in her eighties, vain as the day is long, and whip smart, though her particular sort of intelligence did not encompass recognizing young celebrities.
I pointed out Robert Downey Jr. to her when he arrived, in a gorgeous cream-colored linen suit, with Sarah Jessica Parker on his arm. My grandmother shrugged, far more interested in piling her paper plate with various unidentifiable cheeses cut into cubes. He wasn’t Carey Grant or Gregory Peck. What did she care?
The afternoon’s main honoree was Ron Kovic, whose story of his time in the Vietnam War that had left him confined to a wheelchair had recently been immortalized in the Oliver Stone film Born on the Fourth of July.
I mention the wheelchair because it played an unwitting role in what happened next.
We made our way to our folding chairs in the garden with our paper plates and cubed cheeses and we watched my stepmother give one of her eloquent speeches and a plea for donations, and there must have been a few other people who spoke but I can’t remember who, and then Ron Kovic took the podium, and he was mesmerizing, and when it was all over we stood up to leave, and my grandmother tripped.
We’d been sitting in the front row (nepotism has its privileges) and when she tripped she fell smack into the wheelchair ramp that provided Ron Kovic with access to the stage. I didn’t know that wheelchair ramps have sharp edges, but they do, at least this one did, and it sliced her shin right open.
The volume of blood was staggering.
I’d like to be able to tell you that I raced into action; that I quickly took control of the situation, tending to my grandmother and calling for the ambulance that was so obviously needed, but I didn’t. I sat down and put my head between my knees because I thought I was going to faint. Did I mention the blood?
Luckily, somebody did take control of the situation, and that person was Robert Downey Jr.
He ordered someone to call an ambulance. Another to bring a glass of water. Another to fetch a blanket. He took off his gorgeous linen jacket and he rolled up his sleeves and he grabbed hold of my grandmother’s leg, and then he took that jacket that I’d assumed he’d taken off only to it keep out of the way, and he tied it around her wound. I watched the cream colored linen turn scarlet with her blood.
He told her not to worry. He told her it would be alright. He knew, instinctively, how to speak to her, how to distract her, how to play to her vanity. He held onto her calf and he whistled. He told her how stunning her legs were.
She said to him, to my humiliation: “My granddaughter tells me you’re a famous actor but I’ve never heard of you.”
He stayed with her until the ambulance came and then he walked alongside the stretcher holding her hand and telling her she was breaking his heart by leaving the party so early, just as they were getting to know each other. He waved to her as they closed the doors. “Don’t forget to call me, Silvia,” he said. “We’ll do lunch.”
He was a movie star, after all.
Believe it or not, I hurried into the ambulance without saying a word. I was too embarrassed and too shy to thank him.
We all have things we wish we’d said. Moments we’d like to return to and do differently. Rarely do we get that chance to make up for those times that words failed us. But I did. Many years later.
I should mention here that when Robert Downey Jr. was in prison for being a drug addict (which strikes me as absurd and cruel, but that’s the topic for a different essay), I thought of writing to him. Of reminding him of that day when he was humanity personified. When he was the best of what we each can be. When he was the kindest of strangers.
But I didn’t.
Some fifteen years after that garden party, ten years after my grandmother had died and five since he’d been released from prison, I saw him in a restaurant.
I grew up in Los Angeles where celebrity sightings are commonplace and where I was raised to respect people’s privacy and never bother someone while they’re out having a meal, but on this day I decided to abandon the code of the native Angeleno, and my own shyness, and I approached his table.
I said to him, “I don’t have any idea if you remember this…” and I told him the story.
He remembered.
“I just wanted to thank you,” I said. “And I wanted to tell you that it was simply the kindest act I’ve ever witnessed.”
He stood up and he took both of my hands in his and he looked into my eyes and he said, “You have absolutely no idea how much I needed to hear that today.”
Did I fucking ask to start crying tonight. No. No I did not.
😢bless his heart…
Robert. xx
Omg. ❤
Anyone have a tissue?..
I always reblog this story, because as much as it’s about Robert, it’s also just as much about how you can make the choice to be kind, and that you never know just how much those kindnesses make an impact on the recipient of them.
The location for the shoot was in Switzerland, around Sion. The shoot was divided in 2 groups: the aerial Unit for the helicopter plates shot on Panavision Genesis and a ground unit with a tracking vehicle mounted with 2 Arri Alexa cameras on an Ultimate Arm. Dan also took thousands of tiled photographs of the environments and rock textures on canon 1Ds in order to build digital versions of the landscape.
We built the train model with an engine, 5 carriages and a caboose with gun turrets. This was then rigged with controls for the speed, the amount of movement between carriages and the banking. A separate rig allowed the artists to generate train tracks procedurally and constrain the train to the tracks. All this was animated in autodesk maya 2011. The textures of the train had to be seen fairly close. This meant having to use 3 high resolution textures of a resolution of 8000 pixels per carriage. In total, the train had 9 textures per channel (colour, specular, reflection, dirt, displacement, bump). Then each carriages had variations in the textures. This accounted for a total of over 80 textures. The texturing was done in Photoshop and Mari from the Foundry. The look development, lighting and rendering was done by David Mucci with Pixar renderman using HDRI image based lighting and raytracing. DNeg’s team also modelled, textured, and rigged the cable and zipline. The digi-doubles of Captain America, Bucky and Gabe were used in some shots at a maximum of a quarter of the screen height in pixels. They were constrained to the cable rig in a hanging position and were animated to the correct speed to land on the train.
To plan the whole sequence, production provided DNeg with a post-viz animation cut done by the Third Floor.We then had to model the whole environment based on the layout of the shots to ensure geographic continuity in the sequence. This meant having to go from large vistas to hugging a cliff side when on top of the train. This was a challenge in itself as the resolution of the rock face needed to holdup to full screen with a train going past at 90 mph, therefore covering lots of ground in a single shot.
To this end myself and our in-house surveyor, Craig Crane, took our lidar out to Cheddar Gorge, surveyed a number of locations to produce a vast high resolution mesh. This was then handed over to Rhys Salcombe to be cleaned in 3D coat and textured in Mari using a projection technique. The photography was sourced from the rock faces corresponding to the lidar scans. Rhys also modeled and textured a couple of viaducts that we see at the start and end of the sequence. The entire landscape was recreated in maya, with the addition of trees generated in houdini. Finally, the snow was added by a procedural shader in prman. For the distant plates, we used a mix of matte painting projection and the background plates shot in the alps. Various layers of effects and atmospherics were also added by Howard Margolius and his FX team: snow falling, snow being kicked by the train, mist and clouds and one hero explosion when a hole gets blasted in the side of the train.
from CAPTAIN AMERICA: Charlie Noble – VFX Supervisor – Double Negative October 4th 2011
Agent Carter needs to be a success. It needs to be a success because sexism is still very much a thing, in Hollywood as in most other large societal institutions. There is an ironic meta-level to this series and to Peggy Carter as a character, wherein she must battle the sexism of her time in order to do the work she feels called to and which is exclusively male-dominated. Concurrently, her series must fight that same uphill battle of entrenched sexism 70 years in the future, in present-day 2015, as it attempts to make a dent in an entertainment genre still depressingly, excessively inhabited almost solely by white men.
Male superhero yarns can be brilliant, and they can be mediocre and they can be downright abominable, and Hollywood will continue to churn them out prolifically like clockwork. If Agent Carter is nor a roaring success, all hopes for a Black Widow movie go rushing down the drain, along with any other female-led superhero movie or TV franchise still in early stages of development. Agent Carter is a test balloon, and all of Hollywood is using this one 8-episode series to pose the question “Can female superheroes be successful? Can they be profitable? Can they be popular?”
On the Meta-Sexism of Agent Carter & Breaking the Superhero Glass Ceiling (X) via thedailyfandomtv
As new cases of autism have exploded in recent years—some form of the condition affects about one in 110 children today—efforts have multiplied to understand and accommodate the condition in childhood. But children with autism will become adults with autism, some 500,000 of them in this decade alone. What then? Meet Donald Gray Triplett, 77, of Forest, Mississippi. He was the first person ever diagnosed with autism. And his long, happy, surprising life may hold some answers.
This article was written 2010 and some questionable language terminology is used, but it is an interesting read despite that.
“As new cases of autism have exploded in recent years—some form of the condition affects about one in 110 children today—efforts have multiplied to understand and accommodate the condition in childhood. But children with autism will become adults with autism, some 500,000 of them in this decade alone. What then? Meet Donald Gray Triplett, 77, of Forest, Mississippi. He was the first person ever diagnosed with autism. And his long, happy, surprising life may hold some answers.”
knitting in the dark 