universal qualities of a work of art the interval is wide, and almost
one of kind rather than degree, though no line of strict demarcation can
be drawn; while, as between the painting that is primarily a portrait,
with incidental universal qualities, and a painting that is primarily a
work of art, and incidentally a portrait, the difference is entirely a
matter of degree.
In, for instance, the “Blue-Boy” the portrait element predominates; in
the “Shrimp-Girl” the universal element predominates. In the former, the
portrait was uppermost in the painter’s mind; in the other, the picture
was the only consideration. And yet Hogarth’s is undoubtedly the more
perfect portrait, though slight and sketchy as compared with the
composition and finish of the Gainsborough.
In fact, the “Shrimp-Girl,” as an abstract work of art, is a degree
higher than the picture-portrait. It is a picture,--a work of art in the
doing of which no considerations other than the artistic intention moved
the painter.
A mere portrait, in the dash and brilliancy of its execution or the
decorative quality of its color, may be better than a picture of
indifferent execution or poor color; the one may be worth keeping in a
limited circle, or even of some use decoratively in a more general way,
while the other is not worth preserving at all. But there is hope for
the man who attempts to paint a picture, to produce a work of art,
though he fails miserably; whereas there is no hope for the brilliant
technician whose sole ambition is to paint and sell his canvas
photographs as rapidly as possible.
Manet’s “Child with a Sword” is a superb portrait of a child,--a model,
to be sure, but none the less a little human being, with as many
attributes of life and humanity as the child whose parents pay the price
of a likeness. Manet’s chief merit lies in the fact that all his life
long he tried to paint pictures, sometimes successfully, sometimes
unsuccessfully; never with any profound insight into human nature or
life, but always straightforwardly and sincerely, and with a strong,
firm hand. He painted many portraits of his sister and his friends, but
invariably with the intention to do something of more universal validity
than a likeness.
The casual visitor to the Louvre may examine at his leisure the little
“Infanta” and the “Mona Lisa,” both great pictures, both great
portraits, but of the two the portrait element is rather more pronounced
in the Velasquez than in the Leonardo.
The little “Infanta” is there for all time on the canvas, precisely as
she was in the painter’s studio, a wonderful portrait of a child, a
wonderful picture of a bit of humanity, but less of a type than an
individual.
As for the “Mona Lisa,” who can doubt that in the long years the painter
worked on this portrait all superficial resemblances and characteristics
disappeared until the constant, the elemental, the soul alone remained?
It possesses many of the qualities of the idealized madonnas of Italian
religious art. It began with the painter’s admiration of a beautiful
woman, an individual of that day and generation; it ended with an ideal
which will last so long as the slowly-darkening pigments retain line and
lineaments.
* * * * *
The mere adding of accessories in the way of composition or background
or the adoption of a classic or theatrical pose may make the work more
decorative, but it does not enhance the real merit of the portrait, the
status of which cannot be altered by the surrounding canvas.
When Mrs. Siddons entered Reynolds’s studio, he said, as he conducted
her to the raised platform:
“Take your seat upon the throne for which you were born, and suggest to
me the idea of the ‘Tragic Muse.’”
“I made a few steps,” relates the actress, “and then took at once the
attitude in which the ‘Tragic Muse’ has remained.”
When the portrait was finished, Sir Joshua said:
“I cannot lose this opportunity of sending my name to posterity on the
hem of your garment,” and he placed his signature on the border of the
gown.
All of which are the conditions under which theatrical and meritricious
art is produced. The portrait of a woman posing as the “Tragic Muse”
_may_ turn out well, but the chances are otherwise.
There are “portrait-painters” who are better than others, and the best
of all were Rembrandt and Velasquez, the latter the greatest
portrait-painter who ever lived,--so great that his portraits are great
as pictures; but not quite in the abstract sense that a painting by
Raphael is a picture,--a bright and beautiful song in line and color;
not quite in the sense that a painting by Angelo is a picture,--the
tumultuous outpouring of a human soul; not quite in the subtle sense
that a painting by Whistler is a picture,--a harmony to delight the eye
as music delights the ear.
Rembrandt and Velasquez were great in technical directions in their
portraiture, and their achievements remain unchallenged; but in the
painting of portraits each was something of the “portrait-painter,”--not
the facile, commercial painter of to-day, but they painted portraits to
earn their living. Now and then the portrait was a labor of love and a
great picture, seldom--at least in the case of Velasquez--a matter of
drudgery, and therefore a failure.
Velasquez was so happily situated in the court at Madrid, of the king’s
household, on friendly terms with the royal family, that he painted
their portraits with far more devotion and interest than he could
possibly feel towards a stranger.
A portrait of Philip the Fourth by Velasquez ought to be as good a work
of art as a bust of Pericles by Phidias,--and that is about the most
that can be said in portraiture,--but a bust of Pericles would not be
the best that the art of Phidias could do, for his art was not limited
by lineaments.
* * * * *
Wherein the art of Whistler differed from the art of Rembrandt and
Velasquez in the painting of human likenesses is as follows:
With Whistler the sitter, whether model or patron, was subordinated to
the composition, to the harmony of line and color,--was simply an
integral part of the larger scheme in the painter’s mind.
With Rembrandt and Velasquez the sitter was the important feature,
everything else being quite casual; the object in mind being to paint a
great portrait, to put a human being on canvas. A worthy object when
worthily done, but not quite so pure and subtle and abstract, not quite
so free from limitations of time and place and person as the intention
to do something of universal validity in which the individual shall not
obtrude beyond his due measure of importance.
In the attempt to do things that had never been done before, in the
attempt to make painting as pure an art as music and poetry, Whistler
possibly made many failures, or rather many more or less incomplete
successes, but in his best things it is undeniably true that he produced
pictures wherein the portrait element was as subtly if not as “strongly”
developed as in anything ever before painted, and wherein at the same
time that element was successfully subordinated to ideals more refined
and universal.
Both Rembrandt and Velasquez did “stronger” things than Whistler,--that
is to say, they placed their subjects more positively and forcefully on
the canvas, so that they stand out more aggressively, and fill not only
their frames but the room; they do not obtrude, but they are great big
characterizations which make themselves felt in any company.
Whistler’s portraits, like all his pictures, retire within their frames,
do not assert themselves, are not “strong,” as the term is quite
legitimately used in the sense of powerful, positive, and vigorous. His
portraits are neither “stunning” nor overwhelming; they are so quiet,
restful, and harmonious as to almost escape notice. There is a
wraith-like quality about some of them that has often been noted; some
of them seem the portraits of shadows rather than realities.
A woman standing before “The Fur Jacket” said:
“So that is a portrait of a woman by Whistler?”
“No,” replied her companion; “it is Whistler’s impression of a woman.”
Neither was right,--for, as a matter of fact, it is simply a composition
of line and color wherein a woman--in this case a model--is the central
figure of the arrangement. The painting of a likeness was not in
Whistler’s mind at all. The painting of a woman, either as a type or an
individual, probably did not enter his head; but he had in mind a scheme
which pleased him, and this scheme he placed on canvas. It is quite
likely the woman happened to enter his studio, and the effect of figure,
costume, and environment caught his fancy. That was the way many of the
portraits were begun.
Lady Archibald Campbell was nothing to him except a possibility; she was
to him as a theme, as a motive to a musician. At the outset he had all
sorts of trouble with the picture; and it was not until one day Lady
Campbell happened to come in with her fur cape over her shoulders that
he made a new start and painted the picture. It is a great portrait, one
of his very best, a haunting likeness of a woman; not such a
photographic likeness as friends and relatives demand, but just the
likeness that posterity demands: a woman, a type, with all the charm,
all the refinement, all the real, the true, the elusive qualities of a
woman,--in short, those qualities of mind and body which reappear in
descendants of the third and fourth generation and demonstrate the
faithfulness of the portrait.
* * * * *
There is no portrait by Rembrandt or Velasquez which at all resembles
Whistler’s portrait of his mother.
It is not at all like anything by Rembrandt; there is a hint of the
blacks and grays of Velasquez, but that is a superficial observation
made by every passing tourist.
In scheme, composition, intention, and execution the picture is
essentially different from anything the great Spanish painter ever did.
One ought to recognize the fundamental difference between the two
artists on looking at the little “Infanta” in the Louvre,--there is no
need to go farther. Velasquez had a firm strong grasp of life about him
which Whistler lacked. The one was a man among men, the other a poet
among poets, a musician among musicians, a dreamer among dreamers; the
one painted men, women, and children because they interested him, the
other painted them because he was interested in beautiful things; the
one viewed the world by day with his feet planted firmly on the ground,
the other viewed it by dusk and by night with his head in the mist and
clouds.
There was the same difference between Velasquez and Whistler that there
is between two poets, one of whom--like, say, Byron--deals with life
with a sure hand, the other--like Keats--deals with beauty as the finest
thing in life.
* * * * *
In poetry even the casual reader does not confound men of opposite
temperaments, though both use the medium of verse to express their
thoughts; but in painting, people habitually confuse men who have
absolutely nothing in common except the medium they use. And yet for
every poet there is somewhere a painter of like moods and temperament.
Men do not differ, though some use poetry, some music, some sculpture,
some painting to express their fancies and convictions.
Were one so disposed, it would not be difficult to point out the
Browning, the Tennyson, the Whitman, the Bach, the Beethoven, the Wagner
of painting, for the human soul is the same in every art.
Beyond the fact, therefore, that Velasquez and Whistler both expressed
themselves by means of painting, they were not at all alike, and their
work must reflect their fundamental differences.
Whistler, in susceptibility to color and fleeting line, in love for
abstract, almost ethereal beauty, was akin to the choice spirits of the
far East. He found more that appealed to him and affected him in the
blue-and-white porcelain of China than in any painting from Madrid.
Velasquez might give him many valuable hints as to the use of color, as
to the practice of his art, but no suggestions whatsoever as to ends and
aims. These motives he found in the East, in those wonderful lands where
men, leaving nature far behind, almost touched heaven in their
philosophies, and did seize some of heaven’s infinite blues and silvery
grays in their arts.
* * * * *
It is idle to compare Whistler’s portraits with those of any other man,
for the qualities that make those of others great are not found
accentuated in his, and the qualities that make his great are not found
refined in those of others.
* * * * *
The matter of likeness, which troubles most people, is of vital
importance to the “portrait-painter,” since it is his sole excuse, the
only justification he has for existing, but to art it does not matter at
all.
Likeness has no objective existence. It is entirely a matter of
impression, a subjective realization. Beyond the size of the mouth, the
shape of the nose, the color of the eyes there is little to what is
called a “likeness.” A person never looks the same to different people
or on different occasions.
To the casual acquaintance a “likeness” is but skin deep; to the friend
of a lifetime it is altogether a matter of character. A portrait that
satisfies a wife fails to please a mother, and one that provokes the
applause of the passing throng is a disappointment to the family.
* * * * *
For what is one man’s appearance to another but the impact of
personality upon personality, the coming together of two vitalities
clothed in flesh and blood. But some there are who see only the clothes
of another,--the very outward shell and husk; others who see only the
flesh and blood,--the physical covering; others who get at the man and
know him in part as he is. For whom shall the portrait be painted,--for
those who see, or those who know, or those who love? And by whom shall
the portrait be painted,--by the tailor-painter or by the soul-painter?
The world is filled with painters of the superficial, with painters of
husks; and those are the painters who impress the multitude, for they
see what the multitude see, and there is no mystery to puzzle, but
everything is superficial and plain.
* * * * *
A likeness is the physical semblance of the soul; and the only likeness
worth having on canvas or in marble or in words is the faithful
transcript of the impression the sitter makes on the artist.
From the fact that this impression changes and deepens from hour to
hour, and day to day, and week to week, as the two beings come to know
each other, it follows that the best portrait can only be painted after
sufficient acquaintance for the dissipation of those superficial traits
and characteristics which envelop everyone like a fog.
It is the special province of caricature to seize upon a man’s
superficialities and peculiarities, and make the most or the worst of
them; but it is the business of portraiture to get beneath and give a
glimpse, an impression of the true man.
To this end Whistler’s many and long sittings were of inestimable
service. The portrait grew with his acquaintance with his sitter. What
first pleased him as a scheme of color and an agreeable personality came
in time to interest him as a human being, with the result in the most
successful canvases that the picture would be all he desired as a
harmony, as a song without sound, and also a marvellously subtle
realization of his impression of the human being he had learned to know.
* * * * *
In one respect the identity of a portrait is not a matter of entire
indifference, for the attitude of the painter is more or less affected
by his relation to the sitter, and whatever affects him affects his
work.
Many an artist does his best when his wife or child or some one he loves
is the model; and the man who could not paint his mother a little
better, a little more sympathetically than a stranger would be soulless
indeed. In poetry the influence of a mistress is a matter of tradition.
The picture, as a work of art, must be judged independently of its
associations. It stands by itself, and is good, bad, or indifferent,
regardless of the painter or the conditions under which it was done; but
some of its excellencies may be explained if we learn it was a labor of
love.
It would not add a feather’s weight to the superb qualities of the
“Hermes,” at Olympia, if it were discovered to be a likeness of the
sculptor’s son; nor would it detract in the slightest degree from its
perfection if it were found to have been the work of an unknown man, and
not by Praxiteles,--though in the latter case there would be a great
abatement of enthusiasm on the part of the touring public. But if a
number of the master’s works were in existence, and it was perceived
that the “Hermes” possessed certain qualities of tenderness, certain
indefinable elements of superiority that made it the masterpiece, the
knowledge that some one whom the sculptor loved dearly had posed would
help to explain the almost imperceptible differences. The work would
stand on its own merits; but one of the reasons why it stood so high
would be found in the relationship between sculptor and model.
By many who should be qualified to speak Whistler’s portrait of his
mother is considered his masterpiece, possibly by some because it is of
his mother, but by others quite independently of the relationship.
Others there are who consider the portrait of Carlyle his masterpiece,
possibly because it is of Carlyle, but by some independently of the
identity of the sitter.
Seldom is the portrait of any unknown or less known sitter mentioned in
comparison,--all of which goes to show the bias which results from
knowing the identity.
Every Scotchman would insist upon the Carlyle, most of them quite
unconscious of the patriotic bias.
There are pictures far more subtle in color, more “Whistlerian” in
effect, more distinctively the creations of a great poet in color than
these two portraits, but as compared with any _two_, or even _three_,
or, possibly, _four_ others, the preservation of these are of vital
importance to the fame of the artist and the advancement of art. In this
sense they may be considered his masterpieces, and of the two the one
that hangs in the Luxembourg is far the finer. It is one of the few
pictures that leave nothing to be said by painter or layman.
It is more than a portrait,--it is a large composition of line and form
and color; it is a great portrait made subordinate to a great picture.
* * * * *
Whistler was seldom so satisfied with a portrait that he was willing to
part with it. He could always see things he wished to change,--partly,
no doubt, because his impression of his subject changed from day to
day,--and he would often keep a portrait by him for months and years
before exhibiting. In fact he exhibited a like reserve about nearly all
his work. It was next to impossible to get anything from him for current
exhibitions.
He would faithfully and with the best of intentions promise to have
something ready. The time would come, and he would be found still at
work on the canvas as leisurely as if so many centuries were before him
instead of so many hours, Nothing ever induced him to either hasten his
work or exhibit it unfinished. The fact that he might not be represented
gave him not the slightest uneasiness. The result was that the Whistlers
seen were generally old Whistlers,--all the better for that. For
instance, of the pictures exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition,
not one had been painted within ten or fifteen years,--two dated as far
back as 1864.
At the Antwerp Exhibition, a year later, there was certainly not a
picture painted within ten years. By this method the artist had the
advantage of his own mature judgment and the assistance of time,--and
time wields a great brush. There is no glaze, no finish, no varnish
equal to that dispensed so evenly, so mellowly, so softly, so
beautifully by time. Furthermore, there is no judgment so sound, no
criticism so penetrating as the judgment and criticism of the artist
himself on his own work after the enthusiasm of the hour has worn off.
One of the finest indications of Whistler’s greatness was this reserve
in the exhibition of new work, this ability to do fine things and
quietly put them away out of sight, until with lapse of time they could
be looked over dispassionately, repainted if necessary, and either
banished forever or exhibited in all their glory.
Most artists delight in seeing exhibited immediately--often
prematurely--the things they do, and the delight is not unnatural.
Others there are who, on account of numerous disappointments or from
queer crotchets, are opposed altogether to exhibitions. Whistler was not
of the latter class; he was quite human enough to enjoy, as he himself
said, the honors which come from well-conducted exhibitions. He was an
officer of the Legion of Honor, had received awards and honors without
number, including the extraordinary award of the gold medal for etching
and also for painting at the Paris Exposition of 1900, and an honorary
degree from a Scotch University. These honors sat lightly, but by no
means uneasily, upon him.
* * * * *
His unwillingness to part with work led to no end of trouble and
misunderstanding. People could not understand why they should not have
what they had bargained and often paid for, why there should be any
delay whatsoever, much less why after many demands their money should be
returned and the picture kept by the artist.
All this is, of course, diametrically opposed to the rules of commerce,
and Whistler has been blamed for his unreliability, to use the mildest
term urged against him.
Without knowing him it is impossible to understand his attitude towards
his pictures.
In the first place, he was profoundly attached to them, whether sold or
not. They were and remained _his_ work; and in a humorous way he
frequently insisted upon this superior right of the creator,--as on the
fly-leaf of the catalogue of his London exhibition, which read:
“_Nocturnes, Marines, and Chevalet Pieces_: a catalogue. Small
collection kindly _lent_ their owners.”
And sometimes this assertion of a superior equity went so far as to
interfere with the right of possession, which was quite beyond the
comprehension of the multitude.
The story is told that a certain Lady B---- purchased one of his
pictures, but was never able to get it.
One day she drove to the studio in her victoria. Mr. Whistler went out
to the sidewalk to greet her.
“Mr. Whistler,” she said, “two years ago I bought one of your
pictures, a beautiful thing, and I have never been able to hang it
on my walls. It has been loaned to one exhibition after another.
Now, to-day I have my carriage with me, and I would like to take it
home with me. I am told it is in your possession.”
“Dear lady,” returned Whistler, “you ask the impossible. I will
send it to you at the earliest practicable moment. You know,--those
last slight touches,--which achieve perfection,--make all things
beautiful.” And so forth and so forth, to the same effect, and the
lady drove off without her picture.
After she had departed, Whistler commenced to poke around the
studio, and, to the great astonishment of a friend who had been an
involuntary listener to the above conversation, he brought forth a
canvas.
“Here it is,” he said. “She was right about one thing, it _is_
beautiful.” And it _was_ beautiful.
“But the impudence of these people,” he continued, “who think that
because they pay a few paltry hundred pounds they _own_ my
pictures. Why, it merely secures them the privilege of having them
in their houses now and then! The pictures are _mine_!”
However, this side of Whistler is on record in the case of “The Baronet
_vs._ The Butterfly,” as he called the suit of Sir William Eden to
obtain possession of the portrait of Lady Eden.
As the circumstances of this famous case illustrate Whistler’s attitude
towards his work, and at the same time his attitude towards those who
tried to deal commercially with him, they are worth recalling: