'I liked the John Singer Sargents'

When it comes to the reputation of the American painter John Singer Sargent, it is not unusual to encounter a certain level of sneering. Over the years, I’ve heard much praise for his technical ability but, quite frequently, found that this praise has been undercut by the question of whether or not he was a truly great artist. Critics have remarked upon a tendency towards the superficial, a lack of real or genuine emotion, or a tendency to paint conservatively and without daring. Or that there is little more to him than the portraits. 

 

It is all too easy to find yourself swayed by experts and their opinions, and as a suggestible soul, I’m no exception. Indeed, approaching the Sargent and Fashion exhibition at Tate Britain, I found myself burdened with a surplus of negativity. That I also found myself humming lines from one of my more welcome earworms, Rufus Wainwright’s ‘The Art Teacher’, may also have played a part in casting me as naïve student. It’s a wonderful song, the story of a young girl, who on expressing to her teacher that she rather ‘liked the John Singer Sargents’ is nevertheless, easily ‘turned’ towards the greater experimentation and expressiveness of J.M.W. Turner.

As well as being easily swayed, I’m also rather forgetful. Here I was, exercising a recent tendency of mine - and one that I strongly recommend whenever entering a sizeable exhibition - to sweep quickly through all of the rooms and gauge what it is that immediately catches your eye (this, at the risk of offending a few curators, gets you out of the modern tendency to visit an art exhibition and treat it like you’re reading a book). Anyway, I did not make it past the third room. I was waylaid by a Sargent painting that I felt I knew intimately: Dr. Pozzi at Home.

 

Dr. Pozzi at Home (1881)

For all of that tiresome carping about technical skills versus true artistry, I’d somehow forgotten about Julian Barnes’ fantastic book The Man in the Red Coat, an art biography that radiates out from the Parisian gynaecologist Dr. Samuel Jean de Pozzi, and Sargent’s incredible full length portrait of him. Not only did I feel like I knew Pozzi intimately, but the knowledge gained from the book had electrified the portrait in front of me. The story that Barnes had told about Pozzi buzzed around my head. And then some. Is it a coat or a dressing gown? The latter, surely! And look at just how exquisite and tendril like those fingers are. The fingers of a pianist, as long and as skilled as those of Rachmaninov. Pianists and gynaecologists. And the way that the right hand toys with the cord of the dressing gown - nonchalant, daring, sexual? The tassels. The decorated shoe peeping out from beneath the hem. This dazzling symphony of red exploding across the gallery. Technically, of course, it was superb. But it was also daring, not in the least conservative, and in no way superficial. There was depth and it sang out at you, across the centuries. The exhibition and Sargent had me hooked.     

Depth and daring are also adjectives easily applied to Portrait of Madame X. Another full length portrait, this time of Virginie Gautreau, got me thinking that the curators had missed a trick in not displaying this painting alongside Dr. Pozzi. Those gilt shoulder straps on the dress would surely complement the cord on Pozzi’s dressing gown. Indeed, Sargent had originally painted the French socialite with the right shoulder strap missing, causing quite the scandal. Not all the critics were aghast though. One writing in L’Artiste revelled in the painting’s portrayal of feminine sexuality: “Of all the undressed women at the Salon this year, the most interesting is Madame Gautreau ... because of the indecency of her dress that looks like it is about to fall off.” The naysayers held their ground though; Sargent, abashed, rehooked the strap. 

Madame X (1884)

No matter, strap a hanging or falling, I adore this painting. Again, it’s the hands and arms that hold your gaze. Look at the barely perceptible bruised blues in the inner elbows of Gautreau’s arms, the way her right hand roots itself onto the table, and her left practically - or provocatively - clutches at her evening gown. And that nose: imperious, disdaining, and glorious.

Gautreau gazes off into the wings; not so with Lady Agnew of Lochnaw. Her eyes, raised slightly, greet us as if we were a butler that she had just summoned. You don’t know whether to admire that diaphanous silk dress, the gorgeous lilac bow, the fascinating colours of that dazzling necklace pendant … or go and boil the Lady an egg.

Lady Agnew of Lochnaw (1892) 

There’s such presence in these portraits. Well over a century old, they nevertheless, despite the period dress and furniture, stand outside of a particular milieux. They have a timeless quality. Again, though, I was reminded that they don’t appeal to all. A boy and a girl standing directly in front of Lady Agnew looked on quietly. But then the male decided to throw Sargent overboard. “They are all so dull and chocolate boxy,” he remarked. Lady Agnew gazed back and seemed to say: “Mansplain away, young man. I’m way too dazzling to be employed in the services of mere confectionary!” 

Then there’s La Carmencita, perhaps the most dazzling - literally - painting in the exhibition. It’s an explosion of gold and yellow, buzzing with energy. Apparently, the sitter - or rather stander - a Spanish Gypsy dancer, was a restless and fidgety subject and there is a strong hint of that in the blurring of the dancer’s left arm.

 

La Carmencita (1890)

 

This particularly painting also put me in mind of Paula Rego’s Angel, a work that I saw some years ago in this very building. The violence in the Portuguese artist’s work is more overt, with the woman wielding a sword and a sponge (the latter, supposedly to mop up the blood that she is about to spill). But compare the dazzling yellow skirt of ‘Angel’ with the dress of Sargent’s dancer. And the provocative, ever so slightly angled pose of both women. Sargent called his dancer a ‘bewildering superb creature’; likewise, Rego’s subject. 

Paula Rego, Angel (1998)

 

There’s more to Sargent than portraits here. And it’s useful and fun to contrast some of the more curious paintings. The Chess Game is a stunning and impossibly rich tableaux of a couple playing chess beside a pond. The contrast between the man’s red pantaloons and the blue and green shadowed water detained for well over twenty minutes. It’s a ravishing whirlpool of a painting. 

 

The Chess Game (1907) 

Then there’s The Sulphur Match. Look at the way that the Venetian model leans back on her seat - like a misbehaving schoolgirl - as the shadowy figure next to her lights a match. Again, Sargent’s timelessness comes to mind and I couldn’t help reaching for an image of this scenario taking place at my own English comprehensive school, behind the bike-sheds. There’s certainly nothing chocolate boxy going on here.

 

The Sulphur Match (1882)

What I’ve neglected to mention is one of the conceits of the exhibition. A number of these paintings are displayed alongside the actual clothes that are worn in the works (or certainly almost identical garments). Whilst interesting, I did feel that this was a touch gimmicky and an unnecessary distraction from the art. Jonathan Jones, The Guardian’s art critic, felt that they disturbed the eyeline of many of the works. I’m inclined to agree, although, unlike Jones, I thought the exhibition was wonderful.

Indeed, these portraits dazzle and explode. Yes, there is a certain staginess about some of them and there is no doubt that they are in the business of flattering their subjects. At no point is the purpose, as with Rembrandt for example, to dissolve vanity. But I don’t think they suffer anything because of that - after all, almost nobody is going to be able to pull off what Rembrandt does.  

 

Velázquez - Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1650)

 

As I left Tate Britain, I began to think of what complimentary comparison I could give to Sargent. He deserved much more than what some of the naysayers had offered up. I returned to the image of Dr. Pozzi and what it was, outside of the bounds of Barnes’ book, that the painting of the gynaecologist had got me thinking of. It struck me later that night. That ravishing red underplayed by the white had brought to mind Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X. “Quite the accolade,” I thought. And you know what, I think I shall stand by it.