Thursday, December 9, 2020. Very cold, yesterday in New York with temps in the low 30s. In the late morning around the top of the day we had a brief flurry for about twenty minutes, none of which made it to the roads and pavement, but enough to remind clearly that winter is coming.
With our world being as quiet as it has been these days, I often use some of my time editing my library of hundreds of books I’ve acquired (and continue to) over the years. This week I came upon a book that was published in 2007 called The Society Portrait; From David to Warhol, with a Giovanni Boldini portrait of Consuelo Vanderbilt, then the Duchess of Marlborough, with her youngest son Lord Ivor sitting on her lap.
Consuelo had an interesting and much written about history. I had a strong sense of her because coincidentally her eldest granddaughter, Lady Sarah Consuelo Spencer Churchill, who died in 1999, had been a close friend of mine. And over the years she talked about “Granny” and her influence on her.
When Sarah was a young woman living at Blenheim where her father, Consuelo’s son Bert was the duke, she first married an American serviceman named Edwin Russell during the Second World War. She confided that her decision was greatly influenced by her grandmother that American women had more independence than British women. After her marriage Sarah moved to the United States where she brought up her four daughters and lived permanently for the rest of her life.
As often happens when you have so many books, I’d forgotten about this one, so I sat down with it, thinking it might make an interesting Diary. Then in checking our archives, I discovered that indeed I had already written about it, which we published on December 7th, 2007.
Today at this time when ordinarily we are in a season of parties anticipating the holidays, our calendars are empty and there is nothing social to write about, we decided that the subject is always interesting.
When I was a teen-ager, I had a girlfriend whose mother was heiress to the richest man in town. They lived in a big house, had a uniformed maid, a cook, and one day, even a French painter, a man who was introduced as Monsieur Sasportas, who’d come to stay for a few weeks to paint the portrait of Madame.
Mrs. Russell was a striking looking woman in memory. The face was broad and large but the expression was taut so that she could look cold. In memory, she was a very nice woman. When I was a very young boy, I was once told by my piano teacher who loved to gossip that Mrs. Russell could often be found in the sanctuary of the local Episcopal Church collapsed in prayer, crying her eyes out — over the infidelities of her husband.
My piano teacher didn’t use the word “infidelities” on this 10 year old. I can’t remember the word(s) she used, but I got the picture. And as you can see it’s stayed with me for my entire life. As has Mrs. Russell’s portrait (Russell was her second husband, she having eventually divorced the first husband over whom she used to cry her eyes out).
First of all, M,. Sasportas was very old to these young eyes. He spoke English very slowly, almost mumbling with his French accent. When he smoked a cigarette, he always held it at the very center of his lips. Which I then determined to be the French style for cigarette smoking. He was not very tall but roundish.
My friend whose mother was having her portrait painted, used to mock him by putting him on. We all thought that was funny, because it was embarrassing. In retrospect, he must have thought we were all silly bores because we were.
Mrs. Russell’s final portrait, however, was quite impressive to these first-time-seeing-a portrait eyes. It was hung in the large living room. There was no portrait of her husband. It was impressive because Mrs. Russell looked regal. She looked like a “rich” woman, a woman of independent means and therefore an independent woman, and therefore … regal. The tautness in her face was softened, and she was prettier. She was seated, in a blue dress with a blue background. It was dramatic; the whole notion.
I wouldn’t be surprised if I thought quite differently about the portrait by M. Sasportas today. I wonder if it was as good as it seemed to this one who had never seen a portrait of a person in my sphere. Perhaps it was, and perhaps it wasn’t.
Because so much contemporary classic portrait looks cookie cutter and merely portrays an almost photographic likeness of the subject who is otherwise uninteresting to look at. John Singer Sargent was never uninteresting to look at.
Gabriel Badea-Päun’s “The Society Portrait; from Warhol to David” (Vendome, 2007) explains it most succinctly. For me, who knows very little about Art History, it was informative, evocative, intriguing, fascinating and beautiful to look at. Can you tell that I like this book?
Portraiture as we know it today never got started until about the 15th century. Only the Popes and the Kings (and Queens) got to have their portraits painted. And naturally they were painted to make them look good and grand. By the 18th century the portrait became an artist’s bread and butter in vanity fair.
As society absorbed new members of wealth, the society portrait grew in stature and popularity. The motivation was then as it is today: vanity on the part of the sitter and business on the part of the painter.
Badua-Paum’s historical review of the genre is also a social (and economic) document, and it’s not only filled with art history but also some of the histories of the sitters down through the centuries.
These are irresistible because they bring the sitter to you while contemplating his or her portrait.