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• 1 2018-03-30T10:31:07-04:00 Diary of a Tatar Woman 1 plain 2018-04-04T08:48:14-04:00 Below is a journal entry written by a Tartar woman.
  
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  September 27, 1843
   
  Today I posed for a Russian artist foreign to our town, Fedor Grigorʹevich.
   
  At first, I felt uncomfortable standing still under the gaze of a man.  I had never been exposed to such intense scrutiny, and his eye flicked back and forth between his paper and me.  But my husband sat with us behind the easel the entire time for propriety’s sake, and besides, the artist’s payment to me for posing would help pay for more cloth.
   
  In truth, I was also delighted to be preserved in this way.  While my body will return to the earth, my picture will live on.  This immortality is not available to most people I know, and I felt elevated beyond measure to be chosen for this honor.
   
  As the artist drew, he recounted in soft tones to my husband the many people he had encountered throughout his artistic career.  He viewed his profession with a holy fervor, explaining how he sought to conserve the many cultures and people of the Russian Empire through art.  My husband, happy to have found a new conversation partner outside of the familiar faces of our friends, asked many questions and engaged in banter.  Eventually, the topic fell to politics, and Fedor expressed his belief
   
  In this way, he viewed himself as racing against time, tracking down picturesque examples of various cultures and their appearances before they faded away into forgotten history.  This heightened my pride—here I was, defending the traditional dress of Tatar women from oblivion.  I straightened my spine and cooed soft encouragement to my son for standing so still.
   
  Today, I am wearing my very finest apparel.  To keep out the cold, I am wearing several layers.  On top, I have a loose blue dress with gathering at both hips.  I feel that this detail adds a flair to my dress that my sister’s dress, hanging straight down, lacks. Exquisite floral embroidery fills the wide edging of the hem and bib of my dress.  I laugh now at all the frustration I felt during those hours of stitching.  My handiwork will be remembered for centuries to come by whoever looks at Fedor’s drawing.  My sister, standing to my right, always had less patience.  She hates stitching and was forever pricking her fingers during the lessons of our youth.  Even though her husband is richer than mine, her dress is less fine because it lacks the embroidery that I so painstakingly sewed onto mine. 
   
  I let pride swell my heart, but then I chastise myself.  For indeed, her shoes are more expensive than mine.  Hers are crafted of polished black leather and peek out from under her dress with a pointed toe.  I am envious of the sleek handiwork, warmth, and water-resistant quality of her shoes, but I dare not ask my husband for my own pair.  Instead, I continue to continue to wrap my and my son’s feet and legs in thick layers of white cloth, tying brown leather sandals onto the soles of our feet with cords that encircle our calves.
   
  My sister’s dress is a beautiful red, and she has draped a striped shawl over her shoulders.  We both wear red and white head coverings, and strands of large gold beads frame our faces.  The deep-scooped necks of our dresses reveal red underdresses with gray spots.  A chill fills the air in the room, and I wish I had had the foresight of my sister to let my wide sleeves drape over my hands to maintain their warmth.  While hers are hidden in the protection of the cloth, mine are stiffening with cold.  But when I shift to retract them into my sleeves, my husband stops me—the artist has already commenced drawing my hands.
   
  My sympathy goes out to my son—I fear his hands, exposed to the autumn air, are suffering the same fate.  I can only hope he is warm enough.  This morning, I dressed my son in his gray coat and tied it shut at the side.  His blue shirt collar peeks out from underneath, and I am proud of the embroidered hat topping his head that I made for him.
   
  We stand still for hours, and I am lulled into a reverie from the gentle chatter of my husband with the artist.  Finally, Fedor sets down his pencil, exhales a long breath, and steps back from his drawing.  My husband congratulates him on his work.
   
  Now that the drawing is completed, Fedor allows us to shift away from our stagnant poses.  My joints creak in protest.  My neck, in particular, is unpleasantly cramped.  My hand, resting on my son’s shoulder, had fallen asleep long ago, but I hadn’t dared to move it under the piercing gaze of the artist.  I meet eyes with my sister, and we share an acknowledging smile as she lets her arm drop stiffly to her side.
   
  The moment of revelation has arrived, and I hope our portrait is as excellent as the examples of other Tatars Fedor has drawn that he showed us when asking us to pose.  My sister, son, and I step behind the easel, and I catch my breath in joy.  The resemblance is uncanny.  Our faces have a wonderful likeness, and I am pleased with his attention to the details of my embroidery.  The pinks, yellows, and blues of the wide edging of my dress are captured on his paper, along with my stitched floral designs.  My husband, exuberant at the drawing, proclaims me a beauty, and I blush with happiness.