The Bling’s The Thing: Meet The World-Famous Artist You’ve Never Heard Of

The buzz in the antiques market at the moment concerns the possible sale of a sapphire and diamond-encrusted coronet, made for Queen Victoria and designed by her husband Prince Albert. While the art press awaits the news of whether it will be exported from England, which seems unlikely given its historic significance, this piece of jewelry gives me a chance to introduce you to the work of an artist who was once one of the most popular painters in the world, and who now is mostly forgotten. This is a shame, for not only did he paint beautiful pictures, but he managed to capture his time in a way which I believe has been overlooked.

Having your portrait painted by a famous artist has been a status symbol for centuries, from Sandro Botticelli in the 15th century to Andy Warhol in the 20th. In his day, the German painter Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805-1873) was a hugely successful part of this long tradition. If you were anybody, or aspired to be somebody, during the early to mid-Victorian period, you wanted to be painted by Winterhalter. Emperors, princes, and maharajas all paid hefty sums to be immortalized on canvas by his brush, and the artist rose from obscure, peasant poverty to become a steam engine-era millionaire of international renown.

Winterhalter was in particularly high demand for his portraits of glamorous women, such as the Empress Elizabeth of Austria and the Empress Eugénie of France. Perhaps his most famous painting is a portrait of the latter surrounded by her ladies in waiting, but I prefer his portrait of the former in a white ball gown, wearing diamonds braided into her long hair, a work that is still hanging in the Imperial Apartments at the Hofburg Palace in Vienna. [On a personal note, my Mother used this painting as a reference in designing her wedding dress, so it has always been a personal favorite.]

Winterhalter painted many of the royal families of Europe, employing a mixture of flattery and attention to detail that ensured a never-ending stream of prestigious clients. He not only made them look beautiful, in some cases more beautiful than they actually were, but he had an eye for detail that allowed him to capture the subtleties of dress, such as sparkling jewels and silks for the ladies, and polished boots and military medals for the gentlemen. In fact he received so many commissions, that his studio employed dozens of assistants just to keep up with the orders for both original works and copies of them. Although his first big break came in France, it was the British Royal family that really placed the promising young Winterthaler on a firm, international footing.

In 1842, Winterhalter painted his first portrait of the 23-year-old Queen Victoria, who as you can see in the image below just so happens to be wearing the sapphire and diamond coronet that has now come onto the market. The little crown is wrapped in her braids, rather than being placed on top of her head, as you might expect, making what we would consider a fashion statement. Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband, designed the piece to be worn this way based on several Van Dyck paintings of Queen Henrietta Maria, wife of the ill-fated King Charles I, who was shown wearing a similar little crown on the back of her head. Winterhalter’s image of the somewhat shy and reserved young Queen became hugely popular, both at home and abroad, and many copies were made.

The British Royals were so pleased with the result, that over the next two decades they commissioned well over 100 paintings from Winterhalter. Prince Albert’s favorite Winterhalter portrait of his wife, which the Queen commissioned in 1843 and gave to her husband as a birthday present that year, was never intended to be displayed to the general public. It shows the young Victoria leaning back against some red velvet cushions, displaying both her décolletage and a heart-shaped locket that had been a gift from Albert. We can see that part of hairdo has come undone, and her long hair trails down the side of her neck in an extremely informal, seductive sort of way.

Stripped of the sentiment behind it, I have always found this to be a rather tacky picture. At the very least, there is certainly nothing dignified about it. It is reminiscent of the “glamour photography” craze of the 1990’s, in which women paid photographers in strip malls to take photographs of themselves dressed as prostitutes, as gifts for their husbands. (No wonder the divorce rate climbed to 50%.)

Winterthaler’s last official portrait of the Queen was painted in 1859, and it is one of his best images of her. Victoria is no longer the shy, young princess suddenly thrust onto the world stage, nor the blushing bride who only has eyes for her handsome husband, but a beautiful, yet strong woman, the ruler of a vast empire. Gazing confidently down from her throne, she is Britannia personified. Images such as this helped to cement the cult of personality that grew up around Victoria, and for a time protected her during the long years of her self-imposed internal exile following the death of Prince Albert in 1861.

So given examples such as these, why is it that Winterhalter does not leap to mind in the same way that other portrait painters like Velázquez or Gainsborough continue to do, centuries later? Perhaps it is because his paintings, for all of their technical skill, can sometimes seem more like interior decoration than works of art. His figures are often ciphers: they may be beautiful or handsome, but in their Winterhalter portraits it appears that we can learn little to nothing about them as individuals.

By way of contrast, take a look at the work of another society painter, John Singer Sargent, who was working a generation after Winterhalter but still in the Victorian era. In his 1888 portrait of Mrs. Eleanora Iselin, now in the National Gallery here in DC, he shows us a society maven, dressed in rich, dark silks, standing next to a luxurious piece of antique furniture. The genius of Sargent is in the detail of the extended pinkie: hers is such an iron will, that we almost believe that this haughty lady could balance her entire weight on just the strength of her tiny finger.

It is true that Winterhalter rarely exhibits this level of nuance or psychological insight in his images. Popular as his paintings and prints of them were at the time, the art critics of his day never cared for his work in general. As his idiosyncratic style fell out of fashion, and the monarchs whom he painted died or were forced from their thrones, the public lost interest in him as well. People wanted to be able to study a portrait, and walk away from it feeling that they had experienced a kind of revelation about the sitter from the experience, rather than simply having seen a pretty picture.

To give him his credit however, I think we can look at Winterhalter’s work today, and read him as a skilled chronicler of obsession. Many of those whom he painted were incredibly vain and acquisitive, and during the 19th century they and the nations over which they ruled were all in competition with one another on the world stage for colonies and commerce. The Victorians had a seemingly bottomless appetite for accumulation, overstuffing their fussy houses with art, furniture, and bric-a-brac, and displaying as much fabric and bling on their own persons as they possibly could. Viewed through this lens, Winterhalter was simply putting these obsessions onto canvas in tandem with the spirit of the Victorian age.

Thus “Sissi”, as the Empress Elizabeth of Austria was called, was famous for obsessing for hours over preparing her luxuriant hair and maintaining her svelte figure. In fact as she grew older, and her beauty began to fade, she refused to have any more portraits or photographs taken of her, so that people would remember her as she had been. The Spanish-born Empress Eugénie of France loved ordering and helping to design fine clothes, and spent her nearly two decades in power setting standards and starting trends in French fashion. At the same time, she managed to accumulate one of the largest collections of jewelry in Europe.

Queen Victoria, as we all know, was mainly obsessed with her husband – to the point of an almost macabre unwillingness to accept the reality of his untimely death. It is telling that although she had favored Winterhalter with many commissions in the era named for her, after Albert’s death she never employed the artist to paint her again. However when she was finally lured back out into public life, attending the formal State Opening of Parliament in 1866, she did so wearing the same coronet that she had worn when Winterhalter first painted her portrait.

Whatever ultimately happens to that coronet then, it is a tangible reminder of an age of obsession and acquisition which her reign helped inaugurate, and one which Winterhalter knew and understood extremely well.

Proud Parents: A Family Snapshot from 17th Century Spain

Earlier this week Gerald Grosvenor, the 6th Duke of Westminster, died suddenly at the age of 64. One of the wealthiest people in the world, the Duke owned much of Mayfair and Belgravia, two of the best neighborhoods in London. Under the British system of taxation his son and heir, who will presumably become the 7th Duke, will be faced with an enormous bill for his inheritance, often referred to colloquially as “Death Duties”.

While I don’t pretend to understand why and how the British tax things as they do – such as having a license for a television set, which will cost you almost $200 a year for one color TV – I do know that in Britain when the wealthy and/or titled die, their heirs often have to sell off some of the art and antiques from the family home in order to pay their taxes, or give such things to the government in lieu of paying said taxes. In fact, many of the objects currently in UK museums found their way there because of this tax system.

In the case of the Grosvenors, the family has been collecting art for quite a long time, and as The Art Newspaper points out, there are some major Old Master paintings in their collection, including works by Gainsborough, Claude, and Stubbs. There is no suggestion that any of these works will be headed to the auction house or National Gallery in London any time soon. However one painting in the collection that I would like to draw your attention to is by my favorite Spanish Old Master painter, Velázquez. It is not a very well-known painting, but its subject will be familiar to anyone who has studied art history.

Prince Baltasar Carlos (1629-1646) was the only son of the Habsburg King Felipe IV of Spain and his 1st wife, Queen Elisabeth de Bourbon, the daughter of King Henry IV of France and his wife, Queen Marie de’ Medici. As such, he represented the union of some of the most important families in European history. He also represented the imperial hopes of many in his country since, although its star had begun to fade, at the time Spain was still the most powerful empire in the world.

Sadly, those hopes were dashed when the Prince caught smallpox while attending a memorial service for his late mother, and died without issue at the age of 17. Felipe IV would marry again and have more children, and one of his sons would survive to be crowned King Carlos II. However the impotence of Baltasar Carlos’ half-brother would mark the end of the Habsburg rule of Spain, which in turn accelerated the decline of the Spanish Empire.

Despite his relatively short life, Baltasar Carlos had a profound impact on the history of art, not because of his own patronage, but because of that of his father. The portraits of the Prince which the King ordered from Velázquez, in particular, have been popular for centuries now. Their compositions have influenced portrait painters and photographers right up to today. 

The skill of the artist in lending a regal, dignified quality to images of a young boy was no small feat, but he tied his artistry in perfectly with the family’s ambitions. Two famous examples of this are in The Prado, showing the Prince in hunting attire accompanied by his favorite dogs, and another of him riding a galloping pony, represent Habsburg dynastic propaganda at its finest. However there is another, more informal portrait of the prince that many are completely unaware of, since it has been in the collection of the Dukes of Westminster for the past two centuries.

The Velázquez belonging to the Grosvenors is known by various titles, but it is often referred to as “Prince Baltasar Carlos in the Riding School”. It was painted in around 1635, and shows the young Prince on horseback at the Retiro Palace in Madrid. In the background, we see his parents standing on a balcony, watching their son’s riding lesson, while in the middle ground we see his father’s Prime Minister, the Conde-Duque de Olivares, standing with other courtiers. Although the Retiro Palace itself no longer exists, those of my readers who have been to Madrid will immediately recognize not only the very Castilian architectural style of the building shown in the painting, but also the towering clouds and big skies that characterize this part of Spain.

This is not a great work by Velázquez, and there is some scholarly dispute over exactly how much of it (if any) he himself actually painted, and how much was painted by his assistants. And yet in its way, I find this is a very charming picture. It adds to the mental image that one can shape of life at that time, and further humanizes a family which we already know from the many formal images that they had painted of themselves.

The Westminster painting is a snapshot of family life at court, almost like seeing parents seated in the bleachers, watching their son come up to bat at baseball practice. It evokes those feelings of pride which all parents have, when watching their children grow and play. At the same time, the piece perfectly captures the skies that are so particular to Madrid, with the idiosyncratic, Austro-Moorish towers and rooflines that still dot the old part of the city. The combination makes it more interesting, and more unusual, than many other, more formal pieces from this period, which are so often set indoors against plain backdrops.

Whatever their tax bill, one hopes that the Grosvenors will be able to hold on to this rather unique, pleasing work of art.

​Coming To America: Jacob And His Twelve Sons

Father Abraham may have had seven sons, but we all know that his grandson Jacob beat him by having twelve, who went on to found the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Beginning next year, a traveling exhibition featuring a highly important series of paintings of the patriarch and his dozen lads by one of the greatest painters of the Baroque era will be coming to the United States. Perhaps just as importantly as the art that makes up the show itself, this event is not simply a curiosity, but part of an effort to stem the tide of de-Christianization in Britain, making this one cultural event that you will want to put on your long-term planning calendar.

Francisco de Zurbarán (1598–1664) was one of the most important artists of Spain’s Golden Age. An exact contemporary of Velázquez, the greatest of all Spanish painters, Zurbarán became famous for his monumental canvases of religious figures. In these works the artist explored two very different ways of presenting his subjects, which seem almost diametrically opposed to one another.

On one hand, Zurbarán could evoke feelings of contemplation from the humblest, most austerely dressed monks and friars. Take a look, for example, at his painting of St. Francis of Assisi in Meditation (c. 1635), now in the National Gallery in London, where the founder of the Franciscans is shown wearing a worn, patched habit, his face obscured by his cowl. Another example, his Portrait of Fra. Francisco Zumel (1633) in the Royal Academy in Madrid, shows the Mercedarian friar and philosopher in a moment of thoughtfulness. His very white, but very plain robes are the only real brightness in an otherwise dark composition. 

On the other hand, Zurbarán also seemed to delight in portraying saints in the colorful costumes of his own time. Perhaps the best-known examples of this are his series of paintings of female saints, where the ladies are dressed to the nines. His painting of Saint Casilda of Toledo (c. 1630-35) for example, in the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum in Madrid, shows the convert from Islam wearing an elaborate court dress made out of heavy damask, her hair braided with strands of pearls. Similarly, his elaborately dressed Saint Mathilda of Ringelheim (c. 1630-35) now at the Museum of Fine Arts in Seville, shows the very regally-attired mother of both the Holy Roman Emperor Otto I and of St. Bruno, founder of the Carthusian Order.

Falling somewhere in between these two tendencies are a series of life-size paintings of Jacob and his Twelve Sons which Zurbarán painted sometime during the 1640’s-50’s. Unlike the images of saints examined above, where the background is often little more than a wash of color, these men are painted outdoors in the dry, Mediterranean landscapes with which the artist would have been familiar. Many of them bear the implements of those who live off the land by farming and hunting, such as a shovel, scythe, or even a hunting dog on a chain. Others carry objects that reflect some aspect of their story, such as Levi, who is shown carrying a thurible in recognition of the fact that the priestly class of Israel descended from his line.    

Just as in his representations of female saints, Jacob and his sons are all portrayed wearing elaborate, colorful dress. Unlike in his portraits of the ladies however, Zurbarán does not make an effort in this series to idealize these men. Some of them are young and handsome, but others are aged and careworn. The Patriarch Jacob, for example, is depicted wearing an elaborately woven silk turban, with leather gaiters fastened round his ankles. In contrast to his rich garb, he is so old that he is bent double, and has to support himself on his walking stick.

As a whole, this series represents some of the finest work that Zurbarán ever achieved as a painter. Very few people have ever seen these paintings however, since for the past nearly 300 years they have resided in the dining room of Auckland Castle, the former residence of the Bishops of Auckland. Thus, the upcoming visit of these canvases to America is something not to be missed.

Regular readers will recall that I touched upon these pictures when they were purchased almost two years ago by collector and philanthropist Jonathan Ruffer. Mr. Ruffer has been hard at work creating a museum at Auckland Castle and in the surrounding town, dedicated to religious art and the history of Christianity in Britain.

In sending these works out on tour however, Ruffer is clearly calculating that creating awareness in America for what he is attempting to do in England will lead to a greater level of interest in his project. Mr. Ruffer is a very wealthy man indeed, but no successful museum is ultimately completely self-sustaining. His rationale for the project as a whole is encouraging, particularly in the face of a Europe which is becoming ever more radically secular, and more opposed to Christianity:

For me, the biggest thing of all is God, and I want Auckland Castle to be a place where God may be found ‘in the beauty of holiness’. I also understand that we live in an age when there is a widespread grumpiness at the very thought of the existence of God. The experience at Auckland Castle extends the idea of seeking things bigger than ourselves to other avenues of inspiration. Art, music, gardens, nature, food, silences, walks and the patina of heritage will all be found here. These things we call ‘the holiness of beauty’ sitting in harmony with the beauty of holiness – and in tension with it.

“Jacob and His Sons” will travel first to the Meadows Museum in Dallas in September of 2017, and then on to The Frick in January 2018. You can be assured that, when they arrive at The Frick, if I am still blogging, and you are still interested in my scribblings, I will be writing about them. Before that happens, however, I do want to make you aware of *why* these paintings are coming to this side of the Atlantic.         

Detail of “Joseph” by Francisco de Zurbarán (c. 1640-45)