She was giving a lecture on fashion of the Rennaissance. Based on the painting presented on the screen, she described the clothing and what it meant. It was a court scene, set in Venice, with men bowing down to two women sitting in high-backed chairs. She described their clothing materials, why the style was popular at the time, what the artist was trying to convey…
“But there is something in this painting that is different from other fashions of the time,” she posed to the class.
I raised my hand immediately. I knew. “The chopines,” I replied.
She stood silent for a moment, and slowly acknowledged my answer. “You have heard of that term?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Those were the tall, platform shoes that were commonly found in Venetian courts during the Renaissance.”
“Yes, they were…”
“Didn’t the women also put drops of Mercury into their eyes to dilate them, as a fashion?” I added.
“Perhaps,” she lackadaisically replied. “I’ve never heard of that,” she waved away my addition to the lecture with the transition of a new slide.
After class, I brought the painting up to the podium where she stood. I enlarged the Venetian court scene to prove my knowledge of fashion history wasn’t inept and vapid.
“See,” I pointed to the enlarged pupils of the Venetian women. “Their eyes are dilated,” it was a fine detail one would only be able to see if they studied the painting up close.”
“Oh, hmm…” she dismissed me like a parent does when a toddler displays a finger painting. Her eyes never found mine. I don’t even think she glanced at the painting to validate my point.
It was then that I stopped contributing to class discussions.
