Art from THE VOW

Ariadne Abandoned by Theseus, before 1782

I immediately show him the Titian. “I’m already incorporating Titian’s techniques on my newest canvas,” I say as he studies the painting. “Especially his use of light.”

Then we go into my studio so I can show him the new painting, Ariadne Abandoned by Theseus. She sits by the wide expanse of the sea—his ship in the far distance, sailing toward the horizon—as young Cupid weeps at her feet. But she is not weeping. The light on her breast, exposed between the folds of her gossamer chemise, will outshine even the brilliance Titian painted into his Bacchus. I explain that I’ve painted her numerous times, but never accompanied by a collapsed, grief-stricken Cupid. Here, her outstretched arms and radiant breast will highlight the courage with which she faces her own pain. All women, I believe, need such courage.

Penelope at Her Loom, 1764 (Royal Pavilion, Libraries and Museums, Brighton and Howe)

No one should have cause to speculate about what inspired my choice of subject. If Mr. Reynolds is working on the Judgment—even if he is just making some sketches and never turns them into a painting—I must do something else. So I choose Penelope holding Ulysses’ bow.

I begin by reviewing the sketches I brought to London. In some, she sits pensive near her loom—these were for a painting I did in Rome, in which she mourns her husband. She declares she won’t remarry until she has woven his shroud. Each day for twenty years, she weaves a piece, and that night unweaves it. Thus she keeps her suitors at bay. I took great pains to capture her wistful look, echoed in the eyes of the dog at her feet.

My father was impressed that her eyes appear to hold tears though none are visible on her face. “How did you know to do that?” he asked.

I told him it was because he taught me well. What I didn’t mention was that I also learned by holding in my own tears after Mama’s death.

Penelope Taking Down the Bow of Ulysses, 1768 (National Trust, Saltram, UK)

This painting will show the pivotal moment: Penelope holding the great bow she intends to give to the suitor who is able to shoot an arrow through twelve rings. Only he deserves her heart. She is confident no one but Ulysses can pass this test. What she doesn’t know is that he has returned and disguised himself among her admirers.

I think about my own admirers here in London. New ones pop up everywhere. And now Joshua. I have to admit Bridget was right: he offers much more than Nathaniel or Henry. It took only one meeting to find a wisdom and maturity far beyond their flirtatious games.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I will waiver. No, I will remain independent, devoted to my art. My easel will be my loom, my paints the warp and woof, keeping me free of entanglements. Still, I wonder, what if someone greater than all the rest is able to pass whatever test I set?

David Garrick, 1764 (Burghley House Collection, Stamford)

I tell her I appreciate that and describe the portraits I did for British travelers in Italy. “The one of David Garrick,” I say, “was my first work exhibited in London.”

“So you’ve been to England?”

“Only my paintings.”

“How sad not to be there and see the public’s reaction,” she says. “But you’ve given me an idea: I’d like to unveil this portrait at our grand ball next month. Can it be ready?”

I tell her it can if I work as late as light permits each evening.

Joshua Reynolds, 1767 (The National Trust, The Morley Collection, Saltram House, Plympton)

“Naturally,” he says. “We should all look to the Renaissance for inspiration. I’d go so far as to say art has only gone downhill since.”

“So it’s up to us to raise it to great heights again?”

“If not us,” he counters, “then who?”

Though I’ve almost finished his portrait, I tell him I want to make a fresh start. I’ll raise my art to greater heights by showing him seated next to the bust of Michelangelo he keeps in his studio. The room will be cast in shadows in the manner of the old masters. And of course I’ll apply one of his secret varnishes.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe, 1787 (Goethe-National Museum, Weimar)

Yet, as I stare at it, I can’t help but notice a certain familiarity.

I go to the cabinet and take out an old portfolio. Not sure what I’m looking for, I sift through a stack of drawings, many done years ago. Finally, toward the bottom, I come across a sketch I did in London for a self-portrait. Holding it against Wolfgang’s face now, I see an exact likeness: the same eyes, same nose, same gentle expression. The same melancholy. We’re even seated in the same pose, staring out at the same angle. I shake my head as I compare the two.

He looks back at me silently, like my reflection in a looking glass.

“My friend,” I say aloud, “I’ve painted you as myself.”

Angelica Kauffman (by Nathaniel Dance), 1764 (Burghley House Collection, Stamford)

At my first sitting, he directs me to a high-backed chair, where he places a wreath of flowers atop my braids and drapes a fox pelt over my shoulders. The fur hangs low over my bodice, which has a high neckline and several layers of lace tight around the throat. I chose it from among the other bodices I inherited from Bridget, based not just on its meticulous stitching but also on its modesty.

He stands back to survey the setup. “The embodiment of elegance,” he says. “I like it. Now let’s make the woman into an artist.”

He picks up a small brush from his easel and puts it in my right hand, then guides me to use my left to balance a closed portfolio on my lap. Because we’re in his studio, it’s his portfolio. But no one will know that when they view the painting. And view it they will. Portraits by Nathaniel Dance are in high demand, and my image will hang in the finest gallery.

Self-Portrait in the Traditional Costume of the Bregenz Forest, 1781 (Tiroler Landesmuseum Ferdinandeum, Innsbruck)

Our trip from London was strenuous. After a rough crossing to Ostend, we traveled through Flanders and Germany and on to Schwarzenberg. With all of us packed in, Uncle Michel’s farmhouse was crowded. Once again, I found myself adjusting to a simpler life. This time though, I didn’t mind. And I loved the local costume with red-and-gold stitching across the bodice my aunt gave me. Rosa urged me to take out my easel and do a self-portrait.

When it was time to head to Venice, my father, always the talkative one, was subdued. “I feel something is coming to an end,” he said as we helped him into the carriage.

“Hush,” I said. “The warm climate will give you strength.”

Duchess of Brunswick, 1767 (Collection of H.M. the Queen)

Her Royal Highness sets a different tone. As might any mother, she coos over the image of the princess in a flowing white gown with blue and gold cape, her infant son resting on a pedestal before her. She wants to know all about it.

I tell her the pose is modeled after an ancient statue of Peace holding the infant Wealth.

She inspects the Grecian urn in the corner and asks about its inscription.

“It refers to the Duke’s victory in battle,” I say. “And to love’s victory over him.”

She smiles. “When he married my daughter, you mean.”

“Exactly. And the figures of Mars and Venus holding the baby Cupid are a classical symbol for love’s conquest over war.”

She strokes my cheek. “For such a talented artist, love will surely conquer all.”

Iphigenia in Tauris, 1787

After Wolfgang has left Rome, I work each day on the illustration for Iphigenia in Tauris. I give Orestes, seated at the center, Wolfgang’s curls, his large eyes. Having just awoken, he turns to look up at his sister, and their eyes bond, leading the viewer directly from him to her. She stands over him, hand on her heart, comforting him. She will keep him safe.

Henry once faulted my female figures for being spineless. Not so this Iphigenia. With the power of her love etched into every pore, no one will doubt her strength.