This is a terrible exhibition. American painter John Singer Sargent is a great identity artist fascinated by the nature of social existence. He portrays people not in isolation but as actors in a social world in a startling, modern and painfully realistic way. Educated in 19th-century Paris, she used brushwork colored by Manet and Monet to depict late Victorian and Edwardian English society, and was particularly fascinated by those who did not conform to the old order—such as young Jewish women joyfully declaring their individuality. Ena and Betty are Asher and Mrs. Wertheimer’s daughters. But was he, above all, a fashion painter as this exhibition claims? It is not possible; what are they talking about?
This daring artist of modern life transforms into a padded shirt in a show that puts the dress before the face, the hat before the head, and the crinolines over the soul in an obsessive, short-sighted argument. A painter who had so much to tell us here turns into a relic that has nothing to do with anything.
The first thing you see when you enter is an old opera cloak, magnificently preserved and as beautiful as it was back then. But this black lace work is cast in lead next to the first painting, Sargent’s portrait of Lady Sassoon, Aline de Rothschild, whose sharp face is full of life and intelligence. This is the difference between a work of art and an old dress: The painting is as old as the dress, but a person lives in it.
Throughout this show, Sargent’s dazzling work is miserably displayed. There are clothes in glass cases everywhere, obstructing visibility and distracting rather than illuminating the art. A humorous example is the portrait of Lord Ribblesdale; a positive Sade-style image of an aristocrat in a top hat, black coat and boots, holding a horse or a riding crop that he might be about to use on a servant. Rather than letting this fascinating portrait speak for itself, it is displayed alongside a case containing a top hat made by Cooksey and Co of London in the late 19th century, as its pedantic label explains.
The curators went to the trouble of borrowing this ornament from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, but I have no idea what its presence adds to our appreciation of Sargent. Reconstructing the clothes worn by his sitters seems as perverse as digging up their skulls and displaying them along with forensic reconstructions of their faces to see how accurately he painted them. Wrinkled silks look so terrible to me. They belong in an attic with a rocking horse that moves on its own.
The canvases are not only filled with old clothes, they are loud with intrusive labels and placed obnoxiously against the ever-changing wall colors and lighting.
Meticulous tailoring scholarship misplaced. A painting is a fiction, not a jumble of facts, and no artist knew this better than Sargent. Born to American parents living in Europe, he was cosmopolitan, ironic and sophisticated, like a character in a Henry James novel. In fact, James became friends and there are subtle connections between their artistry. Both could be mistaken for conservatives by a fool. But James explores the shaky complexity of the human psyche and the nature of morality with scintillating yet heartbreaking power. Sargent is also a subtle and mysterious portrait artist; He reveals the “character” of his people – with inverted commas, as James puts it – with impressionistic brushstrokes and lines. Sargent and James would have produced a much better exhibition.
Instead, the opening wall text states, “Fashion was central to John Singer Sargent’s achievements as a portraitist.” No it wasn’t. It is painting. It is the way of painting that allows his art to breathe. But it’s hard to see this here. The canvases are not only filled with old clothes, but also printed with intrusive labels and placed obnoxiously against the ever-changing wall colors and lighting. Worst of all, there is no narrative logic. The exhibition sacrifices any understanding of Sargent’s life as an artist to the theme of experimentation.
This is all the more tragicomic because so much of Sargent’s best work was loaned out. If I were the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, I would have serious complaints about the way its treasure, Madame X, is displayed. This portrait of Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau in an off-the-shoulder dress was daring for the 1880s, even in Paris, where the contrast between dark material and pale, slightly bluish skin appalled the 1884 Salon exhibition. But far from giving it the publicity it deserves, it is shown below a forgettable quote written in huge letters.
Worse, it came out without any background or history (other than fashion history). We learn nothing about the Paris where Sargent began his career: the capital of the avant-garde, where Manet and the Impressionists were locked in artistic civil war with the conservative Salon. Sargent knew the modernist rebels, having met Monet as early as 1876, and his later impressionist portrait at the easel shows how interested he was in such ideas. Madame
Relating to: How did John Singer Sargent come onto the scene?
Sargent miscalculated a bit and people were more upset than he expected. The black dress that shocked the Salon? No, it was sex. Gautreau, not a frock, is the star because she exudes sophisticated charm and self-conscious poise while turning her sharp profile the other way around. A novel compressed into a portrait. Sargent encourages us to wonder who this amazing character is, where he has been, and where he might go next. Gautreau collaborates with him in creating the fiction by encouraging fantasies.
This portrait of the woman reveals Sargent to be as elusive and complex a storyteller as his alter ego, James. Each painting in this exhibition is just as rich, but the curators continue to emphasize their interpretations based on tight clothing. It is extremely difficult to see beyond this on the chaotic, non-narrative screen. An artist as good as Sargent does not need space, sufficient light, and much more; It has absolutely no need for quotes and accessories.
If you like historical haberdashery, this might be for you. If you love great art, stay home and read Portrait of a Lady.
• Sargent and Fashion is at Tate Britain, London, from 22 February to 7 July