Strapless (21 page)

Sargent’s months in England were not carefree. He was in an awkward position on either side of the Channel. Most Britishers, though not the Vickerses, found him too French an artist for their tastes; his expressive and often flamboyant style of painting smacked of frivolity. And the French, in their intractable way, continued to reject him. The Salon disaster had exposed their deep-rooted hostilities toward a painter who was, after all, a foreigner. As critics had predicted, he was no longer a candidate for commissions in the beau monde. With his command of languages and his cosmopolitan ways, Sargent had once seemed at home everywhere he went. But speaking like a Frenchman did not make him one. He seemed to belong nowhere.

Throughout the summer, Sargent felt depressed and uncertain about his future. He contemplated changing professions upon his return to Paris, which he planned for the end of the year. He was a man of many talents, after all. He might explore music, he told a friend, or even pursue a business career. He was only half joking.

Despite fewer portrait commissions during this period, Sargent was never idle. He painted constantly, experimenting and perfecting his technique. His lack of income did not affect his ability to practice his art, but it did make the logistics of daily existence more difficult. When he returned to Paris in December, he had trouble paying the rent on his expensive studio, which was more suitable for a prosperous artist than for one experiencing hard times. In lieu of monetary payments, Sargent agreed to paint portraits of the wife and the daughter of his land-lord, Paul Poirson, a cultivated man and patron of the arts.

In early 1885, when Sargent’s financial situation was becoming dire, he received a commission to paint Mrs. Edward Burckhardt, the mother of his friend and former love interest Louise. The occasion sparked a reunion with Louise. In an unsubtle matchmaking maneuver, Mrs. Burckhardt encouraged Louise to step into the painting after Sargent had designed the overall composition.

Louise had changed over the past few years. She was no longer the sweet, demure young Lady with the Rose. Dressed in scarlet from head to toe in
Mrs. Edward Burckhardt and Her Daughter Louise,
she projects an entirely different image. Her evening dress, with its V-shaped décolletage, leaves her neck and arms bare. The scarlet ribbon around her arm contrasts strikingly with her pale skin. A scarlet plume crowns her hair, which is arranged fashionably in an upsweep. Mrs. Burckhardt, dressed in black and seated in an armchair, gazes to the side, while behind her, Louise stares directly at the viewer—and the painter—as though compelling them to notice her confidence. Her hands, pressed together at the top of the chair, as if in prayer, implore the artist to give her a second chance.

Sargent was more vulnerable now than he had been during the summer of 1881, when Mrs. Burckhardt had launched her matrimonial campaign. But if this commission was her final attempt to ensnare Sargent for her daughter, he was able to resist it. He finished the painting and moved on.

While Sargent appreciated the support of such friends as the Burckhardts, he would not be satisfied with a career spent drifting from one occasional commission to another. He had never subscribed to the starving-artist theory of painting; he had always had a strong business plan, a strategy for how to advance in his profession. A definite course of action seemed to elude him now.

In the spring, Sargent exercised his right to exhibit in the Salon, submitting
The Misses Vickers
and
Mrs. Albert Vickers.
The portraits were accepted and exhibited, and the critics were at best lukewarm about them. In fact, the paintings received very little attention—an insult for an artist whose previous works had been featured on the front pages of newspapers. Many other viewers felt equally lukewarm. Even Vernon Lee said that a painting hanging next to Sargent’s at the Salon, Whistler’s
Portrait of Lady Archibald Campbell,
“beats John into fits.” His close friend thought that Whistler’s painting was superior.

In the summer of 1885, Sargent returned to England for a boating trip through the countryside with Edwin Austin Abbey. The excursion began pleasantly: the weather was fine, and the scenery fresh and interesting to Sargent; this was his first time on the Thames. He was charmed by the sight of Chinese lanterns, which stood out on the riverbank, illuminated against the evening sky.

The trip took an unfortunate turn when Sargent, lulled into a sense of security by the pastoral surroundings, recklessly dove headfirst into the river’s murky depths and hit his head on a spike embedded in the riverbed. Despite a nasty injury, he continued to act carelessly. He hit his head a second time and deepened his wound.

Abbey was concerned about his friend’s physical condition and his state of mind. He decided that Sargent needed a safe, tranquil place to rest before he did himself any more harm. What immediately came to mind was Broadway, a village in the idyllic Cotswolds, a region celebrated by Wordsworth and others for its bucolic charm.

Literature is filled with legends about wanderers who are transported to magical Shangri-las during troubled times in their lives. This was how Broadway appeared to Sargent. He found himself in a fairy-tale village populated by a number of appealing American and British artists and illustrators, all close friends of Abbey’s. At the center of the group was a charismatic American couple, Frank and Lily Millet.

Francis Davis Millet was an energetic Renaissance man who excelled at writing, painting, and collecting interesting people. Lily, born Elizabeth Merrill, was a spirited and imaginative woman, attractive, intelligent, and extremely nurturing. Along with their two children, Kate and Laurence, and Millet’s sister Lucia, they enjoyed a communal existence with their friends, who either lived in neighboring residences or became perennial houseguests. Besides Abbey and the Millets, the Broadway group included the illustrator Frederick Barnard and his family; and the poet and critic Edmund Gosse, his wife, and his sister-in-law, who was married to the painter Lawrence Alma-Tadema. Henry James was a frequent visitor.

In 1885, the Millets lived in Farnham House, a quaint stone structure dating from the sixteenth century. This was the colony’s headquarters and the central location for communal activities. The artists cultivated an Elizabethan atmosphere, furnishing their homes with objects from that period, and the women often wore long flowing dresses that evoked the past.

When Sargent arrived in Broadway, Farnham House was occupied by family and guests, so he stayed at a nearby inn. But he spent much of his time with the Millets. He loved the storybook setting, and recorded its details in drawings and paintings. He noted the unusual golden light, warmer and more penetrating than the light in France. He strolled in wild gardens filled with giant lilies, roses, and poppies, and followed paths that led to no particular destination. He breathed clean, herb-infused air, acutely aware of the differences between this countryside and Paris.

He was both pleased and inspired by his surroundings. The colony members became a surrogate family—in many ways more nurturing than Fitzwilliam and Mary Sargent had been when he was younger. Lily Millet was among the attractions for him, and the crush he developed was not unlike his infatuations in Paris and Brittany. This time, though, the object of his affection was not a femme fatale, like Amélie, or a forbidden passion, like Albert de Belleroche: Lily Millet was a domestic goddess. She spent her time with her children and in her garden, and was the driving force in her community. Sargent, in need of emotional support, found her irresistible.

He tried repeatedly to express his affection for Lily by painting her portrait, but was dissatisfied with his attempts. One day he caught sight of her as she was running out of the house to post a letter, a lavender shawl thrown hastily around her shoulders. Enchanted, he persuaded her to drop what she was doing to sit for him. In no time he captured her lovely face, dreamy, serene, and contented. Her lush body, enveloped by the shawl, is round, soft, and inviting—the opposite of Madame X’s, with her severe lines. The portrait,
Mrs. Frank D. Millet,
is inscribed with the artist’s simple message: “To my friend Mrs. Millet.”

Lily Millet was a safe infatuation for Sargent: she was happily married, and absorbed in her family. He could admire her, spend time with her, even become her close friend. There was no danger of disillusionment, as with Amélie, or intimacy, as with Judith Gautier.

Sargent’s Broadway friends had a great taste for fun and games. They would play lawn tennis, romp with the children in games of tag, and dance at riotous birthday parties. Sargent joined them in donning costumes and laurel wreaths to perform in stage presentations and tableaux vivants. Such recreation allowed him to experience the childhood he had missed. In the evening, the group would gather for other activities, planned by a different person every night. When it was Sargent’s turn, he taught the others how to throw shadows on a sheet and how to cut out silhouettes. An uninhibited Sargent played the piano and sang from the works of Wagner, subjecting his audience to one Teutonic libretto after another, though they begged for lighter material, like “Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose,” a music-hall number that everyone was singing that summer.

 

 

This song, the sight of the children playing in the garden, and the memory of Chinese lanterns along the Thames at twilight inspired a painting that would convey Sargent’s Broadway experience. He envisioned children holding lanterns among the flowers, their faces illuminated by diffused golden light. Some of the elements—the late-summer light, the fading flowers, not to mention the young, unpredictable children—would be difficult to control.

Undeterred, Sargent selected a spot in the Millet garden to set up his easel. He began with little brown-haired Kate Millet as his model, but replaced her, much to her disappointment, with the Barnard children. They were a little older than Kate, and would have more stamina, and Sargent favored the lighter color of their hair. They were dressed in white gowns, bribed with candy, and positioned near flowers and lanterns. The adults served as Sargent’s assistants, set decorators, and appreciative audience.

Every day for weeks, just before sunset, Sargent would drop his tennis racquet, gather his canvas, paints, and young models, and head for the garden. He would work for twenty minutes—the brief period of perfect light—to catch the magic transition of late afternoon into evening. When the sun had set, Sargent and his friends would carry the oversized canvas to its resting place to await the next twilight. He would call the painting
Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose.

During this summer, Sargent was unable—or unwilling—to finish the painting. Ostensibly, there was not enough time to complete it, as the daily sessions grew shorter with the waning light and the children had to wear pants and boots under their gowns because of the cold. But just as significant, Sargent was not eager for his Broadway idyll to end. He was enchanted with the people, the place, the rhythm of life, and wanted a reason to return the following year.

Sargent was transformed by these restorative experiences at Broadway. The world of Amélie, Pozzi, and the other brilliant creatures receded, replaced by the wholesome English countryside. He was eager nonetheless to return to London.

Amélie, unlike Sargent, had no escape route after the Salon and was trying to make the best of circumstances in Paris. She did not die of shame, as her mother had predicted, although the months after the Salon must have been difficult. Endless references to the portrait continued to appear in the gossip columns. In an account of a ball at a baroness’s house,
L’Événement
mentioned that “the comtesse Zamoiska, with a neckline ‘à la [Gautreau]’ had only a thin string of diamonds on black velvet as her sleeves.” Perdican, in an item about Sarah Bernhardt in
L’Illustration,
sneaked in a reference to Amélie: “It wasn’t the famous chains that hold up—or look like they are holding up—or look like they are letting slip, whatever one wants to say, Madame [Gautreau’s] black dress in the famous and widely discussed portrait by John Sargent.”

Amélie was used to idolatry, and this kind of attention was humiliating. A few months before the Salon, she had attended every ball, dinner, and concert in Paris. Now, while she was steadfast about upholding appearances, Amélie was selective about her activities, limiting her exposure to only the most important events. She attended the Grand Prix at Longchamps, the only place to be seen in the month of June. But journalists noticed her standing off to the side, where the horses were weighed, not at the center of the action. For a party hosted by a count, she took no chances in dressing for the evening. No one, she knew, should be reminded of that black gown when they saw her, and reporters, apparently, were not. The writer for
La Gazette Rose
found Amélie “very beautiful in a white satin dress with pearl netting.”