Mr. Sargent has painted the portrait of a beautiful woman and of a
beautiful drawing-room; the picture is full of technical
accomplishment. But is it a beautiful picture?
She is dressed in cherry-coloured velvet, and she sits on the edge of
a Louis XV. sofa, one arm by her side, the other thrown a little
behind her, the hand leaning against the sofa. Behind her are pale
yellow draperies, and under her feet is an Aubasson carpet. The
drawing is swift, certain, and complete. The movement of the arm is so
well rendered that we know the exact pressure of the long fingers that
melt into a padded silken sofa. But is the drawing distinguished, or
subtle, or refined? or is it mere parade of knowledge and practice of
hand? The face charms us with its actuality; but is there a touch
intimately characteristic of the model? or is it merely a vivacious
appearance?
But if the drawing when judged by the highest standard fails to
satisfy us, what shall be said of the colour? Think of a
cherry-coloured velvet filling half the picture--the pale cherry pink
known as cerise--with mauve lights, and behind it pale yellowish
draperies and an Aubasson carpet under the lady's feet. Of course this
is very "daring", but is it anything more? Is the colour deep and
sonorous, like Alfred Stevens' red velvets; or is it thin and harsh,
like Duran? Has any attempt been made to compose the colour, to carry
it through the picture? There are a few touches of red in the carpet,
none in the draperies, so the dress is practically a huge splash
transferred from nature to the canvas. And when we ask ourselves if
the picture has style, is not the answer: It is merely the apotheosis
of fashionable painting? It is what Messrs. Shannon, Hacker, and
Solomon would like to do, but what they cannot do. Mr. Sargent has
realised their dreams for them; he has told us what the new generation
of Academicians want, he has revealed their souls' desire, and it
is--_l'article de Paris._
The portrait is therefore a prodigious success; to use an expression
which will be understood in the studios, "it knocks the walls silly";
you see nothing else in the gallery; and it wins the suffrages of the
artists and the public alike. Duran never drew so fluently as that,
nor was he ever capable of so pictorial an intention. Chaplin, for it
recalls Chaplin, was always heavier, more conventional; above all,
less real. For it is very real, and just the reality that ladies like,
reality without grossness; in other words, without criticism. So Mr.
Sargent gets his public, as the saying goes, "all round". He gets the
ladies, because it realises the ideal they have formed of themselves;
he gets the artists, because it is the realisation of the pictorial
ideals of the present day.
The picture has been described as marvellous, brilliant, astonishing,
superb, but no one has described it as beautiful. Whether because of
the commonness of the epithet, or because every one felt that
beautiful was not the adjective that expressed the sensation the
picture awoke in him, I know not. It is essentially a picture of the
hour; it fixes the idea of the moment and reminds one somewhat of a
_première_ at the Vaudeville with Sarah in a new part. Every one is on
the _qui vive_. The _salle_ is alive with murmurs of approbation. It
is the joy of the passing hour, the delirium of the sensual present.
The appeal is the same as that of food and drink and air and love. But
when painters are pursuing new ideals, when all that constitutes the
appearance of our day has changed, I fear that many will turn with a
shudder from its cold, material accomplishment.