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 never turns his sketches into a painting—I must do something else. So I choose Penelope holding Ulysses’s 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.

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 realize 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.

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)

We must, Joshua says, look to the grand style of the Renaissance for inspiration. He doesn’t see any inherent contradiction in going backward in order to go forward.

“I’m afraid,” he laments one morning, “art has only gone downhill over the past two centuries.”

“Which means,” I say, “it’s up to us to raise it to great heights again?”

“If not us,” he counters, “then who?”

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

Yet there is a certain familiarity.

On a whim, I go to the cabinet and take out an old portfolio. I sift through a stack of drawings, many done years ago. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. But toward the bottom, I come across a sketch I did in London for a self-portrait. As I hold it against Wolfgang’s portrait, 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.”

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 of the drawing directly from him to her. She stands over him, hand on her heart, comforting him. Keeping him safe.

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 this morning 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.”

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 Uncle Michel’s in Schwarzenberg. With all of us packed into the farmhouse, I found myself once again 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. On Rosa’s urging, I took out my easel and did a self-portrait.

Duchess Anna Amalia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, 1789 (Private collection Weimar)

Duchess Anna Amalia arrives a few days later, and Johann makes sure we meet right away. Her physique has filled out since our brief encounter in London and her hair gone gray, but she has the same irrepressible laugh, still with the resonance of a cello. I find it remarkable how looks can change over time, yet the sound of a laugh endures.

She says she remembers me as well and is looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. She wastes little time in requesting a portrait.

My work on it progresses quickly, as does our friendship. Rarely have I enjoyed such closeness with a woman my age. She is brilliant and also creative. Having ruled Weimar until her son came of age, she now devotes herself to the arts and social activities of her choosing.

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.”