John Singer Sargent, "Lady Agnew of Lochnaw," 1892, oil on canvas, 49 1/2 x 39 1/2 in.
Scottish National Gallery, Edinburgh. © Trustees of the National Galleries of Scotland
Photo courtesy of the Frick Collection
A few months back we posted a review of Sargent’s iconic portrait of Lady Agnew which had recently been installed at the Frick Collection in New York City as part of a traveling exhibition from the Scottish National Gallery.
William Benson, an accomplished portraitist represented by Portraits, Inc., similarly authored a review of the work and graciously accepted our request to share it with our readers. It appears below. We felt the piece was significant given its appreciative and uncommon point of view--“uncommon” because Benson reflects on Lady Agnew from the perspective of a working artist. Generally speaking, art critiques that get published are most often authored by art historians, professional critics or noted scholars---rarely is the voice of a fellow practitioner provided a comparable platform. One would think that this oughtn’t to be the case---who better to describe the challenges and accomplishments of a master work than a working artist struggling against the same odds to achieve the same ends?
The type of art making practiced by the painters, pastelists, and sculptors affiliated with Portraits Inc. requires a sizable native talent coupled with a life-time commitment to progressive study. It’s not art making for the feint of art—nor can it be fudged. We all have at one time or another stood in front of a conceptual or abstract work of art and wondered whether it was in good taste or not. Baffled we turned to art historians, critics or scholars and capitulated to the opinions they offered—while ignoring our own instinctual yearning for art that invites us in as opposed to shutting us out.
But when we stood in front of a master work that announced figurative content and realist intent, we were immediately drawn in and able to respond with an unsparing and insightful critique. And yet such works nearly always enjoy an appreciative aesthetic judgment—one that by the very nature of its populist leanings dares to invite universal acclaim rather than elitist sanction. Hence, like Benson, we the people will always love Lady Agnew—because Sargent has humbly and graciously invited us to do so.
The below article has been reposted with permission, courtesy of Portraits, Inc. artist William Benson:
"I recently saw this portrait in the flesh for the first time at the Frick Collection in NY as part of their visiting Scottish show; work from the Edinburgh Gallery, Scotland. It is my opinion that this may be one of the finest portraits in all of western art. As a portrait painter I have a certain advantage over the usual art critic who rarely has a grasp on technique of any sort despite insights of a more historic or psychological nature.
In setting up the necessary criteria for establishing a great portrait, a determination must be made first and foremost - does the viewer experience the living, breathing human being in front of us and if so, why. At the very heart of great figurative painting and drawing is one crucial and essential element - gesture. Don't take my word for it, just ask or read everybody from Leonardo Da Vinci to Nelson Shanks. Without the understanding and execution of a natural, human gesture the rest of the work, no matter how carefully wrought, is lifeless. That is why 3/4 of all portraits in the world look "posed" - there is a task at hand, the artist doesn't know the sitter and suggests they do this or that for a pleasing design on canvas. I don't fault them, it's what I do as well.
Now look at the portrait of Lady Agnew - not the face, the gown, the chair . . . all of it, as one completely formed moment of being. This gesture tells us more about this woman and this painter involved in correspondence with two distinct but intertwined aims - he wants to produce great art and she wants him to make her into great art. She inhabits that chair with the confidence of a woman who knows she is beautiful and who knows how to portray that beauty with gesture, comfort and poise. Of course, it is impossible to know how many other poses were attempted before this but it is clear that when Sargent saw this he knew he had it, and just as important, that she was in a pose that wouldn't wear on her, that could be regained for subsequent sittings.
With the first strokes on the toned canvas, the blocking in of the figure, Sargent set up his formal structure within the rectangle - using her angle in the chair against the angle of the other part of the chair, placing her head just off center in the top 1/4 quadrant and letting the strong diagonals of her sash on the right and the dress on the left lead to the pendant. These are serious considerations, this is a formal composition not measurable but specific and yet he made it seem perfectly obvious.
The light is coming in from the left and above. The background drapery forms an alcove around the chair and the strongest shadows (not deepest tone) are cast from the left on the drapery, behind her head and then down the length of her left arm, by her waist and below the sash. These large areas of dark tone would probably be the very first strokes of paint on the canvas and if you squint at the portrait you have some idea of the large, simple truth that these elements imply about his composition. It is rock solid. The dominant, Lady Agnew, sub-dominant, the chair on the left and the minor, her languorous left arm and sash.
I tend to believe he might have painted the head first. If he got it and was fairly satisfied he would feel completely at ease with the rest of the painting, emboldened even, knowing how much fun (yes, fun) he would have with the rest of the picture. Also, he would not want to keep her staring for long periods knowing he might lose the expression he was after. Just a guess.But I reserve comments about the head for later.
Consider now the upper part of the dress - its flowing, transparent nature. Sargent painted in thick, buttery paints - meaning all tones are applied in the same manner. So he did not paint an arm and then scumbling some off white over it for a transparent look, he mixed his paints thickly in nuanced tones, placing them in such a way to create this illusion and notice how the top left part of the blouse (her left), flattened by the chair, fades into the background. The cinch at the inside of the elbow just a hair more lavender than the blouse, clarified by a few deft strokes to indicate a bow or flower - it doesn't matter.
The lavender sash has got to be one of the most luscious passages of paint in all of art history. It seems you could almost count the strokes that have produced it and yet there is more there than can be taken in. Where to start . . . how can I possibly explain the bravura, the sheer brilliance of control of the loaded (and I mean loaded and broad) brush strokes that contain tone, color, nuance and form all in one? Two strong diagonal shadows, one cool gray/blue, the other of alizarin and purple side by side and all the highlights, each just a stroke of perfect tone, placement and direction. But the most wonderful passage of all - the ambient lavender tone cast upon her shadowed thigh where the sash crosses over it.
All of this fabulous technique, all these areas of delicious paint and felicitous handling, all in service to the head (this is, after all, a portrait) and what a head he has painted. It is, of course, the one thing everyone stares at and emotes about but how does it do what it does? An art critic not too long ago commented a bit ignorantly on how some of the mystery lay in the fact that Sargent painted one corner of her mouth up and the other down - that is not the case but he can be forgiven for thinking so. What is happening is that the corners are perfectly aligned (she is not sneering) but the muscles around each corner are taking the light in different ways; her left corner is in shadow and the small bit of light that hits the muscle near it descends very subtly downward, the muscle on her right (the lit side) has a soft shadow that moves subtly upward. She is not smiling but seems to be just holding one back, pleased with what she is doing and having this attention lavished upon her. But the eyes are the key to this infamous painting. The head is tilted slightly down as evidenced by the shadow on the throat, the tip of the nose being below the earlobes and most significantly her pupils, raised into the upper lids and fully visible at the lower lids. This does not give her "bedroom eyes" but quite the opposite, a direct and almost challenging stare with one eyebrow ever so slightly, quizzically raised. Everyone sees this for what it is - confidence, beauty and sexual power. She exudes this.
As if all this were not enough, there is one more aspect to this painting which needs addressing - her hair. Manet famously said "black is the queen of colors" and he certainly used a lot of it as did many painters before him and some after (Chase and Whistler come to mind). But there is no other black in this painting - all the shadows, even the wood along the arms of the chair are not the deep, pure black of her hair, highlighted by a very minimal passage of just off black - blue/gray. This hair sings the praises of black - its depth, richness and power. It reigns!
OK, enough. I could go on and on if I haven't already. This painting is much, much more than the sum of its parts. It is ethereal and sublime all the while maintaining the one essential quality that ties it to the world and to us - she is human."
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