In our modern age, where every person is armed with a camera and computer, you’d think that we would know more. How is it possible that one of the greatest American artists of the last quarter of the nineteenth century has only 24 locatable works out of 88 that were on display in her final exhibition, and potentially hundreds more she made?
Attributed to Richard W. Dodson, American (1812 – 1867) FULL PRACTICE, dated 1867. Depicting a barn with six ratters. London; Published October 1867. By R. Dodson 147 strand. 50 cm x 67 cm.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847 – 1906) was born to Quakers in Philadelphia, PA. Her father, Richard Whatcoat Dodson, was an illustrator, who believed that women should not work as artists, and therefore refused to teach his daughter. She waited five years after his death to enter the Pennsylvania Academy of Art. Soon Dodson was living in Paris, her works regularly shown in the competitive Paris Salon. Despite suffering from what is regularly described in contemporary literature as “fragility,” which inhibited her ability to paint for long stretches, Dodson travelled extensively and completed major commissions for public and private collections. Her work was the centerpiece of the American galleries the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1889 (i.e. the same event that gave Paris the Eiffel Tower). And, Dodson was subsequently asked to paint the monumental murals for the Palace of Fine Arts and the Women’s Building at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition. When she died in 1906, Dodson’s brother Richard — my hero, albeit a tragic one — spent the rest of his life holding exhibitions in Paris, Berlin, London, Philadelphia, and New York to promote her work. His efforts were largely unsuccessful, probably resulting from a combination of the First World War and subsequent seismic shifts in art taste. So, Richard donated some of Dodson’s more important canvases to major American museums, where only one is on public display. The location of the vast majority of Dodson’s oeuvre is still unknown, unlocated, and forgotten. Two years ago, in a minor East Coast auction, I discovered and funded the restoration of her work Meditation of the Holy Virgin (1888). (More on that later.) Ever since, I have gathered more information on Dodson’s meteoric career and the whereabouts of known works. In sharing what I have learned, perhaps more will be discovered, dusted off, and put on display.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (Undated). Photograph, reproduced from Catalogue of the Exhibition of Paintings by Sarah Ball Dodson (New York, 1911)
Less than five years after enrolling in arts school, Dodson was exhibiting at the Paris Salon. She began studies as private student of Christian Schussele (French/American, 1824-1879) at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Today, Schussele is best known as the design of the United States Medal of Honor. Dodson began working with Schussele just as he was diagnosed with a debilitating illness. Thomas Eakins (American, 1844-1916) would fill in for Schussele when the latter was too weak to tutor Dodson.
From Pennsylvania, Dodson moved to Paris, where she studied privately with the monumental history painter Évariste Vital Luminais (French, 1821 – 1896), who appears to have been a friend of her mentor Schussele. Dodson then matriculates at the Académie Julian, which was distinct for allowing women to study with world-class artists, even as the official École des Beaux Arts did not. She became close with Jules Joseph Lefebvre (French, 1835 – 19111) and the less remembered Louis-Maurice Boutet de Monvel (French, 1851 – 1913).
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 18847 – 1906) L’Amour Ménétrier (also titled Pupils of Love or Cupid, the Fiddler), 1877. Private Collection.
Dodson’s first publicly-exhibited work was L’Amour Ménétrier (1877) in the Paris Salon of 1877 as “Number 724” of 3,554 paintings shown in the Salon. The work was unusually ambitious for a woman of the era. Typically, women were relegated to the non-figurative sections of the Salon, specializing in still lifes, animalier, and floral works. Dodson was among the and influx of women graduating from the Academie Julian who pushed the expected limits placed upon them by custom and bias.
The painting as subsequently sent to Philadelphia for an exhibition where a local critic, Edward Strahan, wrote:
“What could be more unexpected than that a quiet lady of the Quaker City, imprisoned during early life in the straitest-laced tradition, should suddenly bloom-out, after a short resident in Paris, into a full-blown Louis Quinze spirit, fit to decorate with Boucher-like cupids the bedstead carved by [Charles] Boule!…” (Edward Strahan, The Art Gallery — Exhibition of the Philadelphia Society of Artists,” Art Amateur, Vol. IV (December 1880), 5.
The next known work from Dodson was similarly ambitious and multi-figural: The Invocation of Moses (c. 1882). It is inspired by a dramatic battle described in the Book of Exodus 17, between the Children of Israel, led by Moses, and the people of Amulek. As they fight, whenever Moses hands are raised, Israel prevails. When his hand grow heavy and Moses rests, Amulek’s side progresses. Therefore, Aaron and Hur stand on either side of the Prophet to keep his hand “steady until the going down of the sun,” securing victory. Whereabout of the original painting are unknown; but, the oil study was gifted by Richard Ball — Dodson’s Brother — after her death.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906). Study for Invocation of Moses, ca. 1882. Oil on canvas, 13 3/4 × 13 3/4 in. (35 × 34.9 cm) frame: 17 × 16 1/2 × 1 1/2 in. (43.2 × 41.9 × 3.8 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of R. Ball Dodson, 25.522. (Photo: Brooklyn Museum)
The following year, Dodson was 43 years old, and created her breakthrough work: The Bacidae (1883). In subject and style, it was a departure from previous known works. “Bacidae” is plural the historical bacis or bakis: female prophets and oracles who, from 700 to 500 BCE, were central to Greek life. People would make offerings to the bacidae, who would consult the entrails of animals and stars to dispense predictions, wisdom, and cures.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906) The Bacidae, 1883. Oil on canvas. 79 x 63 in. Newfields Collections, Indianapolis Museum of Art.
Dodson shows the Elder bacis sitting on a marble throne with a younger apprentice alongside. On the the trípous — a ritual three-legged stool — is a freshly disemboweled, upturned bird. As the senior bacis voices the interpretation of what she sees, the younger dramatically recoils.
This is a tour de force of figurative competence by Dodson, combined with a mature and dramatic interpretation of classical culture. The work placed her immediately in the upper echelons of academic artists of her time, including Jean-Paul Laurens and William Adolphe Bouguereau. It was first shown at the Paris Salon of 1883, then was sent to New York, where Dodson became a major draw at the 1884 Annual National Academy of Design Competition. (Charles M. Kurtz. “National Academy Notes.” New York: 1884, 82.)
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson. The Signing of the Declaration of Independence in the State House, Philadelphia, Fourth of July, 1776 (1885) Oil on canvas. Location Unknown.
As her star rose, in Europe there were increasing demands for Dodson to return to the US. The recent Centennial led Dodson to paint the monumental The Signing of the Declaration of Independence in the State House, Philadelphia, Fourth of July, 1776 (1885). The finished work was more than 10 feet long and contained 25 figures. While the work does owe some debt
John Trumbull (1756 – 1843) Declaration of Independence (1819) 12 x 18 feet. United States Capitol Building, Washington DC.
Dodson, as well as all the people viewing her painting, would have been familiar with John Trumbull’s painting of the same subject from some sixty years earlier. While Dodson does owe some debt to the composition, which she has reversed, it is clear that her image is much more dynamic; each of the figures exhibiting individuality without seeming contrived.
Dodson promised to gift the painting to Philadelphia as long as city officials agreed to hang it permanently in Independence Hall, where the event took place. This proviso caused leader to include a group of local historians who, after deliberations, rejected Dodson’s painting on grounds that not all of the 25 figures depicted were present and signed the Declaration on the same day. Deliberations continued for more than 30 years, with one letter, written by her brother six years after Dodson’s death reading:
“I presume nothing yet has been decided about the Declaration of Independence. I have seen several newspaper articles disputing the statements of the older historians that any signatures were attached on the 4th of July, but if that is the ladies sole objection the mere dropping of the date would make the picture fit the case, for signatures were attached at various dates, and in the informed manner portrayed by my sister.” (Richard Dodson, letter to J.E.D. Trask, September 18, 1911, Archives of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.)
The painting was never accepted by the city. To make matters worse, according to contemporary accounts, at some point between 1911 and 1920, the painting was damaged by fire, although it is not clear how extensively. Its current location is unknown.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847-1906) The Morning Stars (Les Etoiles du Matin), 1887 Oil on linen canvas 23 x 30 in. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
In 1887, Dodson had sailed back across the Atlantic, this time to Brighton, England where she would live for the rest of her life. There she painted the ethereal Les Etoiles du Matin (The Morning Stars) (1887) was accepted to the Paris Salon. It appears to be something conceived for a much larger scale, and could have possibly been an early study for monumental murals made for the 1892 World’s Columbian Exposition held in Chicago.
The Woman’s Building at the World’s Columbian Exposition (Chicago,1893)
Dodson was responsible for making a now lost painting, Pax Patrieae (1891) installed as part of an architectual elements in the three-story Women’s Building. (The building was demolished only a few years later.) For the Exposition, Dodson painted the monumental Meditation of the Holy Virgin (1899), which, until recently sold at public auction, was missing for more than 100 years. In fact, the strikingly similar Under the Weeping Ash Tree (1900) painted the year after, was often misidentified as the work shown in the Columbian Exposition.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847-1906), under the weeping ash tree, 1900. Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (American, 1847–1906) Meditation of the Holy Virgin, 1889. Oil on canvas. 67 x 45 in. Anthony’s Fine Art, Salt Lake City.
At some point in the 1880s, Dodson travelled to Italy. These two virginal painting, for me at least, are clear evidence of her encounters with Italian Quattrocento artists, especially Giovanni Bellini (c. 1430 – 1516).
Giovanni Bellini (c. 1430 – 1516) Madonna and Child (1510) 33 3/8 x 45 1/8 in. Pinacoteca di Brera.
In some writings about Dodson, there is discussion of her becoming a Pre-Raphaelite artist. That infers Dodson had some relationship with Jean Everett Millet, William Holman Hunt, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, et al. But, I was unable to find any meaningful personal connection between these artists. I don’t believe Dodson knew them. If anything, they all share a desire for an alternative visual language the pre-dated the compositional spatial formulas established by Raphael and subsequently built upon by the European academy. Here Dodson channels Bellini, centering the beautifully and naturalistically painted figure in a surreal, unrealistic, and symbolic setting.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson (1847–1906) Le Berceau (The Cradle), 1900-1906. Oil on canvas. 46 1/4 x 29 1/8 in. Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
Dodson’s work at the World’s Fair was a critical success; but, it came with severe physical costs. Over the next 17 years, she remained in Brighton, England. Contemporary visitors to her studio report that Dodson would paint for a few minutes and, exhausted, lay down for several hours in order to recover strength. All her life, she had been described as “fragile” or “weak.” So, it was no surprise to many when she died in 1906 of what one doctor described as heart failure at the age of 69.
For the final years of her life, Dodson had been working on a monumental painting, Le Berceau (1900-1906) left unfinished in her studio, of angels preparing for the return of Jesus Christ.
Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson, Wild Parsley, 1900, oil on canvas, 14 1?8 x 18 in. (35.9 x 45.6 cm.), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Richard Ball Dodson, 1923.8.2
Following her death, Dodson’s brother Richard organized a series of exhibitions in Brighton, London, Philadelphia, and New York, the latter with the help of the influential Goupil Gallery, for which a catalogue was produced. (You can read the full text here.) It lists some 88 works, including a large number of landscapes, which are beautiful, evocative works that seem to borrow from the same kind combination of observed naturalism and invented symbolist atmosphere. These landscapes seems to have been the most successful sales at the exhibitions, leaving Richard with a large number of important figurative works. These he eventually gave away to institutions throughout the United States. Today, only 24 of those 88 are known.
I bit off more than I could possibly chew. A few months ago, I was asked the Portrait Society of America to do an onstage interview with Jeff Hein, my long-time friend, world-renowned painter, and host of the podcast The Undraped Artist. It was essentially an in-person version of the podcast, which usually features interviews with living, breathing artists. Over the past few years, Jeff has had me on regularly to discuss the dead, historic ones. The result if a free-wheeling combination of contemporary artistic practices and my limited art historical knowledge. (Usually, I don’t embarrass myself too much, sticking to artistic practices to what is definitely known; avoiding speculation.) We wanted to do something different for the Portrait Society. So, I proposed doing a survey of Portraiture from Raphael to Joaquín Sorolla. We only had an hour, for a discussion that could be turned into a multi-day event. But, it went fairly well. You can watch the discussion on the Portrait Society website. (It is behind a pay wall.)
Jeff and I decided to expand that hour into a longer discussion, and post it as a two-part episode for his podcast. This is part one, going from Domenico Ghirlandaio (1448 – 1494) to the Grand-Tour portraiture of Pompeo Batoni (1708 – 1787). Warning: this is not a super scholarly discussion. Think of it more like a conversation between two art-loving friends.
It includes topics like: the introduction of oil painting, the adoption of canvas in addition to panels as supports, Royal portraiture, Dutch tronies, the invention of new pigments, and Grand-Tour portraiture. It is a lot to cover. Part two will come in a couple of weeks. And, in the meantime, I am seriously considering making this a more scholarly project.
Each year since 1924, the Springville Museum of Art (Springville, Utah) has hosted a contemporary art competition called the Spring Salon. Artists from around the country, including John Carlsen, Norman Rockwell, Emile Gruppe, and Maynard Dixon have participated. The contest still receives submissions from all over; but, the majority are from the unusually artistically dense Intermountain West (i.e. Idaho, Wyoming, Utah, and Arizona). There is no barrier to entry. Everything submitted — regardless of medium, style, size, or subject — is considered by (usually) two professionals, usually taken from different disciplines. (This year, the judges were the art administrator and scholar Felicia Baca, currently serving as the Executive Director of the Salt Lake City Arts Council, and Bryan Mark Taylor, the world-renown painter and inventor.) The result is one of the most consistently dynamic contests I have seen anywhere.
What follows is not an exhaustive review of the Spring Salon. (That would be a monumental task.) Instead, I have eight works which stayed with me well after leaving the Museum.
Eric Overton (Utah, 1980) The Steward (2026) Bronze.
Eric Overton’s The Steward (2026) was commissioned for a Northern California vineyard to honor the contributions of Mexican-American farmworkers. Overton came to sculpture as a physician and photographer, which speaks to his understanding of anatomy. The downward gaze and obscuring hat create an anonymity that make this figure an effective everyman. It is reminiscent of Paul Dalou’s Grand Paysan (c. 1899), even down to the gesture of the rolled up sleeve. Despite the similarities, Overton has created something original in its stance and gesture that conjure a sense of strength that made the sculpture feel almost monumental in scale, despite being less than three feet high. More than that, it projects a dignity and humanity that is a true honor to its subject.
Azalea Rees works in a dizzying array of media. This diminutive self portrait — the product of what must have been countless hours of embroidery — is unlike anything I have ever seen. It transforms the medium into something new and expressive.
Cristall Harper (1978) Pure Joy (2023) Oil on panel.
In seventeenth-century Holland, a group of artists known as a the Haarlem Tonalists dedicated themselves to painting their native, overcast landscape in a palette of colors so restricted that sometimes their works only had two or their colors. Consistently one of the greatest magicians of oil painting I know, here Cristall Harper takes her formidable arsenal of skills to a level that could rival Jan van Goyen. Whereas van Goyen works were limited to value transitions on (mostly) a single plane, Harper has established a deep field of vision with the subtlest control of stroke, value, and saturation. Wow.
Leroy Transfield (New Zealand, 1965) Washer Woman (2026) Gilt bronze.
Leroy Transfield has been one of the most consistently surprising sculptors in a region saturated with them. Classically trained, Transfield retains in his sculptures a discipline of anatomy and gravity that cannot be attained without deep knowledge of the human form. Yet, his composition and gesture are never staid, but always fresh and tailored to the narrative of his work, which he details here:
“When I was a boy growing up in New Zealand, my mum and every other household hung their washing on a line. This simple task of hanging out clothes to be dried and cleaned is a banner of every mothers’ hope for her family.” —Leroy Transfield
Colby A. Sanford (1991) Finding the Way Around (2025) Acrylic on panel.
My photo of Finding the Way Around (2025) by Colby Sanford does little communicate the monumental scale of this three-panel work. Years ago, I remember a professor of mine distinguishing German and Italian opera by saying “One is about the battles between gods and men, the other is about everyday life — both about the epic struggles of good and evil.” Over the years, Sanford has become increasingly ambitious in mining his personal life to make beautiful, heroic images of everyday life. Despite the intensely personal nature of his works, Sanford’s images feel universal.
Howard Lyon (Arizona, 1973) Zephyr, Flirting with Flora (2025) Oil on linen.
Howard Lyon is one of the few regional artists with a truly international reputation. That career has been made of many kinds of genres, including photography, illustration, fantasy, and religious painting; but always informed his study of Old Masters. A few years, ago Howard Lyon won the Salon’s top prize for his remarkable painting After the Dance. That painting seemed to trigger a new direction, where Lyon is making increasingly sophisticated works that are based in mythology and draw on the aesthetics of artists like Frederic Leighton, Albert Moore, Lawrence Alma-Tadema, and John William Waterhouse. This work, Zephyr Flirting with Flora (2025) is catnip for an art historian like me. A painting of the God of the West Wind playfully tossing about the clothing of the Goddess of Flowers
David Koch (1963) Marsh Fire (2025) Oil on panel.
For me, this small painting hung at waist level down a Museum hall, is one of the great revelations of the entire contest. (I’m not throwing shade on the Museum, which has the herculean task of hanging hundreds of artists’ works and attempting to make all of them happy; an impossible task.) In 2007 the economics scholar David Galenson published the book Old Masters and Young Geniuses, where he theorized that artists fall into two general categories: those who spend a lifetime developing a mature and effective skillset and young innovators that often hit on a new approaches that, despite their inexperience, have lasting effects on art. (Personally, I think that there are plenty of artists that can be both young and skilled, and mature and innovative.) I mention this because contests tend to celebrate “the new” and not always recognize the iterative, long-term accomplishments of experienced artists whose work we are accustomed to see. David Koch is a perennial participant and multiple award winner of the Spring Salon. This work shows Koch’s skills honed to an extraordinary level: the application of paint conjuring both the ever-changing water’s surface and a series of diagonals that draw the eye from the bottom left to to the setting sun, the very limited palette that nevertheless creates a beautiful contrast of light effects, and the overall balance of abstraction and naturalism…I am in love with this work. In a region teeming with world-class landscape painters, David Koch is one of the great and consistent masters.
Casey L. Childs (Wyoming, 1974) Young Padawan (2026) Oil and gold on linen.
Who else, other than Casey Childs, could take a parent’s nightmare of children on screens and turn it into a hallowed moment?! Of the painting, he wrote:
“The title Young Padawan, inspired by Star Wards, frames this moment as part of a larger idea of learning and becoming. Like a student training in the ways of the Force, he is focused, curious, and completed immersed. The gold patterns surrounding him echo a sense of reverence elevating this everyday experience into something timeless.” —Casey Childs
Part of what makes this work special, is a the raised surface of the work that reflects the light in unpredictable ways. Personally, I would love to see this work hung like an icon and lit by flickering candlelight.
It is this kind of inventiveness, meaningful insight, and sensitive observation, which go beyond just painting what is in front of the artist, that has made Casey Childs one of the world’s most admired portrait painters.
It has been nearly 10 years since my last post. I don’t know if anyone reads blogs anymore—or cares what I think. (Is this a koan-like version of a tree falling in the forest?) What I do know is this: I miss having an outlet to share thoughts about art. So whether this becomes a regular practice again or just a place for occasional, self-indulgent reflections, I’m dusting off the ancient Bearded Roman blog.
Maybe I should start with where I’ve been. It has been a busy decade. Here are ten highlights, in terms of art:
Francisco Pradilla y Ortiz (Spanish, 1848-1921) Juana la Loca (1878) Oil on canvas. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
1. In 2016, I completed my PhD at the University of London. My 100,000-plus-word, 414-page dissertation—Madrid, Paris, Rome: Spanish History Painting from 1856 to 1897—explores how French academic training intersected with Spanish and Italian models in the instruction, creation, and exhibition of art. (If your sleep medication isn’t working, it’s a solid substitute.) The research took me to more than 40 archives, dozens of museums, and on repeated trips to Spain, France, and Italy. It also resulted in three cases of pneumonia, four bladder infections, and two bouts of shingles. Let no one say, “He didn’t suffer for his art.”
Salt Lake Art Museum, Housed in the Historic B’nai Israel Temple, Opening July 2026.
2. This year, I am founding the Salt Lake Museum of Art. It is not what most would expect from me—no European painting, sculpture, or decorative arts, which have long defined my scholarly and gallery work. Instead, it is a love letter to where I live. Utah has more contemporary artists per capita than any other state in the Union—and among the fewest museums, second only to West Virginia. As a result, many local artists are better known elsewhere than at home. We hope to change that. The museum will feature not only Utah artists, but also significant figures who worked in the region. One of our first exhibitions is the first-ever show of Utah paintings by Albert Bierstadt. I’ve written the catalogue and will share more soon.
3. I co-authored the Dictionary of Utah Fine Artists with Vern Swanson, Donna Poulton, and Angela Swanson-Jones. It includes roughly 4,000 artist biographies, about 800 of which I wrote.
4. I have been a regular guest on Jeff Hein’s Undraped Artist Podcast. Hein—one of the world’s leading figurative painters and a good friend—and I meet about once a month to discuss a historic artist, usually of my choosing. We also record an annual Christmas episode.
5. Alongside Spanish, I have added French to my working languages, opening far more primary sources without translation. Much of this is thanks to ongoing conversations with the brilliant linguist, traveler, and native Breton, Anthony Lollierou.
From left to right: Former Springville Museum Director Rita Wright, Current Director Emily Larsen, Me, & Former Director Vern Swanson.
6. I concluded a thirteen-year board tenure with the Springville Museum of Art. Located about an hour south of the State’s capital, it is home to one of the most — no exaggeration — vibrant arts communities in the world. I am now a board member of the California Art Club, one of the country’s oldest artist-run organizations, for whom I occasionally write and lecture.
7. Over the past decade, I have become a regular juror for several competitions, including the California Art Club Gold Medal Competition and the Almenara Prize.
8. In 2016, I co-founded the Zion Arts Society, a nonprofit, with my friend Eric Biggart. For three years, we produced the Zion Art Podcast and organized more than a dozen exhibitions featuring hundreds of emerging local artists. We paused just before the COVID-19 pandemic, but it appears another friend, Boad Swanson, may revive the effort for a new generation.
Interior of Anthony’s Fine Art & Antiques, Salt Lake City, UT.
9. I am now a partner at Anthony’s Fine Art, a 40-year family-run gallery. The role has me traveling frequently across the United States and Europe to acquire historic works from collections and auctions. I spend roughly half my time viewing thousands of works each week. This has built a growing internal visual database that continues to shape how I see both historical and contemporary art—formally and as an investment.
My children waiting with varying levels of patience for me to finish touring the Bargello in Florence.
10. Over the past decade, I have visited more than 100 museums, seen hundreds of exhibitions, and read extensively in art history and theory. The result: creaking shelves and nearly 100,000 images in my Apple Photos—most still unshared.
In short, I am more aware than ever of how little I know.
That awareness has made me less inclined to offer definitive opinions. I now look back with some embarrassment at earlier posts—some of which I have removed entirely. Chalk it up to the confidence of youth, when opinion outpaced experience. Today, I remain keenly aware of my limitations, but I still intend to use this space to think through ideas that arise in ongoing conversations with artists.
Despite my long absence, people still ask about the blog, which surprises me. I was recently a faculty member at the Portrait Society of America’s Annual Conference, where several artists mentioned it. What surprised me more was hearing from two artists in their 20s who had been reading the archives. When I logged in for the first time in a decade, I found that Bearded Roman still receives around 600 visits a day.
So whether you’re new to these ramblings or an old friend, thank you—for being here, and for your patience.
Note: Each week I hold a discussion with a group of professional artists on the development and career of a major artist. I post a video recording of each discussion. This week’s artist, Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, prompted an unusual amount of controversy. After reflecting on the thoughtful comments made by those who attended, I have decided to write a little reaction of my own here. The video can be found at the end of this post.
“The last Old Master and the first Modern painter” is an oft-repeated phrase used to describe Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828). It captures the un-categorizable nature of Goya’s nearly seven-decades oeuvre, and hints at both his appreciation for the past and influence on those who came after. This week, I led two discussion on the development and career of the Spanish painter. Each gathering was heavily attended by professional artists, mostly traditionalists. I was surprised by the resistance experienced in comments and questions about Goya’s ability to paint.
For that reason, before posting video of the discussion, I would like to write a few words. First, to Modernists, who see Goya almost exclusively as a anti-traditionalist. And, secondly to traditionalists who are often unable to appreciate Goya’s remarkable craftsmanship. He does not belong solely to one team.
A few words about Goya for Modernists
Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) San Juan Bautista niño (1812) Oil on canvas. 112 x 82 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid
In a 1921 essay titled “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” the poet TS Eliot, railed against the predominant spirit of his time, which he believed, saw originality as the highest value. Eliot did not see originality as innovation. In fact, he believed that innovation was dependent upon a solid understanding and appreciation of tradition:
We dwell with satisfaction upon the [artist’s] difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate predecessors; we endeavour to find something that can be isolated in order to be enjoyed. Whereas if we approach a poet without this prejudice we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of his work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously. And I do not mean the impressionable period of adolescence, but the period of full maturity. 1
Those who lionize Goya as having broken with tradition often ignore his portraits, religious and historical paintings and, instead, latch on to his experimental and private work, such as the so-called “Black Paintings” or etchings from the Disasters of War. While it is true that these works were revolutionary, they were also not usually intended for public consumption. Goya’s Black Paintings were made for the dining room in his private residence. And, the Disasters of War were not printed until some 35 years after his death. In other words, the artworks that we often see exclusively as representing Goya in art-history materials and courses were not the ones he was best known for in his own lifetime. I am not attempting to diminish the remarkable departure his experimental oeuvre represented at the time or their subsequent influence on artists. Looking only at his experimental works, Goya seems like a man out of time, almost completely divorced from the aesthetics of his time, which is not accurate.
A few words about Goya for Traditionalists
I have come to the conclusion that most artists interested in the classical tradition see Goya as unworthy of study. It is my belief this is not so much about whether or not his work is wanting. Goya is often excluded from the traditionalist lexicon because he was so well regarded by anti-traditional artists and modernists.
Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) Hannibal the Conqueror Viewing Italy from the Alps for the First Time (1770-1771) Oil on canvas, 87 x 131.5 cm. Selgas-Fagalde Foundation, Cudillero, Spain
It is true that Goya’s influenced generations of artists seeking alternatives to Academic painting, most notably Gustave Courbet and Eduoard Manet. Yet, it is also true that over Goya’s nearly seven-decade career there were works, even very late in his career (e.g. The Spanish Consittution) that were traditional. As a young man, he worked alongside Anton Rafael Mengs. Under the German painter’s encouragement, Goya made a series of copper-plate etchings of works by Velázquez. Goya then went on to Italy on a kind of private prix de Rome, where he copied Greco-Roman statuary and produced an ambitious, large-scale history painting depicting Hannibal crossing the Alps.
Detail, Francisco de Goya (Spanish, 1746-1828) Duke of Wellington (1812-1814) 25 1/3 x 20 1/2 in. Oil on panel. National Gallery, London.
In his portraiture, Goya could have hardly picked less polemical models to emulate:
“I have three masters: Nature, Velázquez, and Rembrandt.”
These are not the words of a anti-traditional revolutionary. Yet, it is my belief Goya has been treated lightly by traditionalists not necessarily because of his own work; but, because the Spanish artist was so well regarded by anti-traditional artists and modernists.
Goya’s timeline roughly parallels that of Jacques Louis David, David had established a strong, Neoclassical vision of art that dominated the French Academy and beyond. During the 1790s, while Goya was Professor of Painting at the Academia de San Fernando (Madrid), the taste for Neoclassicism led to heated debates on whether or not students in Spain should be held to new standards in terms of draughtsmanship and substitute their various Old-Master study materials — including artworks by Spanish, Flemish, and French artists — with those by Italian artists that more closely aligned with Neoclassical ideals, such as Raphael and Guercino. We have notes from the meeting where Goya stated his case for replacing pluralism with a nearly uniform style:
Finally, Sir, I cannot find another, more effective method for advancing the Arts, neither do I believe it exists, than to award and protect … the full liberty for genius to flow from those students of Art who want to learn [their instincts], without suppression, and without efforts to bend their inclination toward this or that style in Painting … 2
He was one of four professors at the Academia de Bellas Artes that voted, unsuccessfully, against the Neoclassicization of the Spanish Academy.
Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828) Witches’ Flight (1797-98) 43.5 x 30.5 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
Does this mean Goya was “anti-academic”? I don’t believe so. In fact, I believe that Goya was attempting to preserve the Academy against itself. The strict adherence to towards Neoclassical dogma — one that arguably denied the Naturalism of Hellenistic sculpture — in European academies throughout the nineteenth century led to many schisms and misunderstandings about the nature of the Classical tradition.
If you are traditionalist or a portrait painter, I encourage you to look at Goya’s portraits. Last year, the National Gallery of London hosted the largest gathering of Goya’s portraits ever assembled in one place. It was astounding. I discuss is at length in the above video. (Skip ahead if you must).
Casado’s prescription for coming to terms with Goya
In 1882, the painter José Casado del Alisal was elected to the Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando the same school where Goya had taught nearly 100 years earlier. On that occasion, Casado attempted to describe to his colleagues — many of whom were still riding the anti-Goya wave of Neoclassicism and Neoplatonism — the value of Goya and his place within the pantheon of Spanish art:
Such a painter, so personal and impossible to copy, with his confident magnificence, with his strange and sublime eccentricities. He cannot have imitators, neither was he able to found a School. His genius was consummated with him …3
It is my hope that those who are anti-traditional can look at the entirety of Goya’s career and see where the Spanish artist subsumed and projected the traditions he inherited. Equally, I hope that Goya is welcomed with open arms by traditionalists, who may be surprised that they have unfairly ignored or marginalized a great master.
According to the Catholic Calendar of Saints, today is the Saint Day of Juan de la Cruz (Spanish, 1542-1591). While I am not Catholic, the history of art has been inspired by and is inseparable from it. For several months, I have been pouring over the poems of Juan de La Cruz; drawn in by their depth and simplicity. But, also, amazed at the relationship his mystic view of the relationship of man and God was expressed in contemporary painting.
Juan was a follower of Saint Teresa of Avila (Spanish, 1515-1582). Her doctrine of a personal relationship with God, was originally considered subversive by Church authorities, who believed it circumvented the need for Church ordinances. Teresa asked Juan to help spread and establish her ideals. As a result, he was imprisioned and submitted to a regular regime of circular torture for nine months. While sitting in a windowless cell, he heard a someone singing a love song outside the prison wall. Inspired to write about his love for God, he convinced a guard to give him pen and paper. He wrote poems that, in Spain, have come to rival the reputation and insight of Shakespeare.
Juan and Teresa’s beliefs would later be accepted and incorporated into the Church’s mainstream. A monument to Teresa was commissioned in Rome and executed by Giovanni Bernini (Naples, 1598-Rome, 1680)
Giovanni Bernini (Naples, 1598-Rome, 1680) “Ecstasy of St. Theresa” (1647–1652) – Marble, Cappella Cornaro, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome
Within Spain, other artists supported Teresa’s advocacy for a closer, personal relationship with God. Perhaps my favorite work inspired hangs in the Prado Museum (above). In person, there works are intimate beyond words. They conjure feelings of awe and tenderness that border on the irreverent.
Recently, I was asked to judge the annual Springville Museum of Art Spring Salon. The contest has taken place for nearly 90 years, with over 2,000 annual submissions exclusively from full-time artists.
Cover for the First Annual Spring Salon Critical Catalogue. (We based the design on the official catalogue for 1874 Salon for the Société des Artistes Français, also known as the Paris Salon.)
I thought it would be fun to create a nineteenth-century-style critical catalogue for the event, in the tradition of the catalogues that used to be made for the Paris Salons. So, I teamed up with a good friend and thoughtful writer, Philipp Malzl, to write on selected works from the contest. Neither of us have worked as critics before. But, we don’t know about any models for the kind of art criticism we would like to see.
Each review is brief–some are a sentence, others three paragraphs. Our intent was to create something readable and entertaining for a large audience–artists and non-artists–and not for an elite audience. At the same time, we wanted to educate by tying contemporary art into a larger tradition that is often ignored or not understood by many contemporary artists and critics who only know art as far back as the beginning of the twentieth century.
I haven’t sent it out to many people yet. This is what I would consider a “preliminary draft.” I wold be very interested in knowing what you think about it.
I don’t know if anyone else is doing anything like this right now, especially for contemporary art in the classical tradition. If this catalogue is truly insightful, I hope it is the first of many.
Fernando Álvarez de Sotomayor y Zaragoza (Spanish, 1875-1960) Retrato del padre Villalba (Portrait of Father Villalba) 86 X 100 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
___
Recently, I received an email from a BeardedRoman reader asking me for list of books on my nightstand. I thought I would post my answer here. And, I would love to know what is on your nightstand too.
I regularly get book recommendations from readers, and I love it. Through their suggestions and my own research projects, over the years I have built a large library. (At last count, I have nearly 1,500 books.) I have books piled by bed and all around my house. No, I have not read all of them–some were only bought for a single, useful chapter. Other I have read multiple times.
The books I have listed below are literally the ones that have been by my bed. I have my finger in every one of them and have been bouncing between them all for weeks. They don’t necessarily relate to any current work I am doing–that’s another pile. These are what I am reading for fun. As I made the list, I was surprised at how many were directly related to art history. (No wonder I am boring at parties.) But, as you can see from the list, my second love is poetry.
Books on my nightstand. (Or, more accurately, the ones piled around my bed.)
____
After naming the book and the author, I have written a very brief personal impression of each book.
Titian: The Last Days by Mark Hudson. There are few straight biographies of Titian. Most that I have read are a scholarly studies of the artist’s works combined with political and social commentary that would not be anything like reading the biography of, say, Benjamin Franklin. I’ve learned something about time an place from Hudson’s book; but, overall I have struggled to get through it. Hudson seems to be as interested in talking about himself as he is about Titian.
French Art in Nineteenth-Century Britain by Edward Morris. This is a great study of the relationship between the French and British at a time when the great international arms race was the arts. France was winning and the British couldn’t help but admire the art it.
Hopes and Fears for Art by William Morris. Morris was the philosophical and moral leader of the Arts & Crafts movement that was a reaction against industrialization. This is an impassioned lecture he gave in defense of his movement.
Master of Shadows by Mark Lamster. This biography of Rubens is one of the best books I have read on any subject in a long time. Weaving together Rubens with the political and artistic dramas of his time, it is clear that the artist was as much a diplomat as a painter. I fell in love with Rubens again; both his art and his humanity.
A Theory of Craft: Function and Aesthetic Expression by Kenneth R. Trapp. Lately, I’ve been obsessed with the role of craftsmanship versus concept in art. Does the way somethings is made matter; or, is it the final product that counts?
The Craftsman’s Handbook(Il Libro dell’Arte) by Cennino d’Andrea Cennini, trans. by Daniel V. Thompson, Jr. Perhaps one of the most widely-read handbooks for artists, this book is a lot of fun to read. Cennini wasn’t always accurate; but, he does give an important insight into the practical considerations of making art in 15th-century Florence.
Velázquez by Aureliano de Beruete (Foreword by Léon Bonnat). Bonnat wrote the foreword just after being made Director of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris. His first sentence: “I was brought up in the worship of Velázquez.”
Patterns of Intention: On the Historical Explanation of Pictures by Michael Baxandall. Baxandall shatters me with almost every sentence. He has changed the way I’ve thought about paintings. Example: ” . . . to say we ‘explain a picture as covered by a description’ can conveniently be seen as another way of saying that we explain, first, thoughts we have had about the picture, and only secondarily the picture.”
A Face to the World: on Self-Portraits by Laura Cumming. I wish I had written this book! Cumming writes about why artists make self-portraits and why we love looking at them.
Essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I have been reading his essay “The Poet” over and over again. It’s like scripture: each reading gets more meaningful.
Seeing through Paintings by Andrea Kirsh and Rustin S. Levenson. A chemical analysis by two scientists on how art is made.
The Infinity of Lists by Umberto Eco. Ever want to know how many demons have ever been named in Western literature? The basic premise of the book is that there is a history of list making in Western literature. From the Bible and Homer to Joyce, the lists say something about our culture. It’s a surprising and entertaining read.
Seven Days in the Art World by Sarah Thornton. This is an mind-blowing, anthropological travelogue of the people who make, buy, and sell modern and contemporary art. Thornton is able to sit down with people and get candid reactions that made we alternatively laugh and want to reach through the page and strangle her interviewees.
Tiepolo Pink by Robert Calasso. Late in his career, Tiepolo did a series of 36 bizarre etchings that are rarely seen or discussed. This is a book about them.
The Sight of Death: An Experiment in Art Writing by T. J. Clark. For several months, Clark works at the Getty Museum and sees the same paintings by Poussin day after day. This is his journal on impressions he had looking at them. It is amazing! The things he sees, the ideas he has, and the way he looks at these paintings have changed me. I want to be more like Clark. He is as much a poet as art historian.
Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste by Pierre Bourdieu. While it is a few decades old, Distinction’s basic premise is: your education and birth are the predominant indicators of why you like the music, food, and art you do.
Ingres: Painting Reimagined by Susan L. Siegfried. I just got this, and haven’t read much. But, it promises to be a new and controversial look at Ingres. Siegfried’s goals are to examine in depth Ingres’ history and genre paintings, which are largely ignored or dismissively categorized.
Ballistics: Poems by Billy Collins. I have all of Collins’ books of poetry.
Los Versos del Capitan (Captain’s Verses) by Pablo Neruda. I lived in Chile. Reading Neruda lets me slip back there, if only for a little while.
Death in the Afternoon by Earnest Hemingway. This is a non-fiction book about bullfighting. As a result of studying Spanish painting, I have to know more about it. Bullfights (corridas) and bullfighters (toreros) are just part of the culture. I went to a bull fight last year at Las Ventas in Madrid. Since then, I’ve been trying to understand what happened and how I feel about it.
Blizzard of Oneby Mark Strand. I have not even cracked it open yet.
Note: Right now there are two remarkable exhibitions taking place: The Sacred Made Real, about religious Spanish sculpture, a loan of John Singer Sargent’s painting The Children of Darley Bolt (1882) to the Prado Museum, where it hangs next to Velázquez’s Las Meninas (c. 1656). I know I have written about Eakins and Velázquez before, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the Spanish Master’s influence on nineteenth-century artists. For me it is a source of endless curiosity and one of the more unexplored aspects of the period.
John Singer Sargent (American, 1856-1925 ) Crucifix (1879) Oil on canvas. Private Collection.
When John Singer Sargent travelled to Spain in 1879 his approach to painting fundamentally and irrevocably changed. There his understanding of painting was forever infused by the restrained palette, virtuosic brushwork and reverence for nature learned principally from Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660).
Sargent travelled to Spain at a time when France, the center of the international art world, had rediscovered Spanish masters. King Louis-Philippe’s Galerie Espagnole (1835-1853) and the marriage of Emperor Napoleon III to Eugenie Contador, a Grandée of Spain (1853), brought a newfound appreciation to the Spanish Golden Age and its artists that excited a generation of artists working in Paris.
Édouard Manet, Léon Bonnat, Jean-Léon Gêrome, Thomas Eakins, Julian Alden Weir, William Merritt Chase, and many others travelled to Madrid to copy works found almost exclusively in the Prado Museum. Chief among the artists copied by foreigners was Diego Velázquez, considered a new, viable alternative to French classical models that dominated Academic painting.
Sargent was a student at the prestigious and exclusive École des Beaux-Arts, when his instructors Carolus-Duran (French, 1837-1917) and Léon Bonnat (French, 1833-1922) suggested that his development as an artist would improve dramatically from a visit to Spain. Sargent visited the Prado Museum multiple times from October to November in 1879. The official Registry of Copiers records Sargent copying The Crucifixion (c. 1632), Las Meninas (c. 1656), and Las Hilanderas (c. 1644) by Velázquez.
Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) The Forge of Vulcan (1630) Oil on canvas. 230 by 290 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
As court painter to Philip IV of Spain, Velázquez was employed by the most powerful country on earth. However, unlike many other Baroque painters of his time, whose grandiose works were showcases of extravagant colors, exotic creatures, and obscure subjects,Velázquez’s work features everyday people in everyday settings. Even his few religious and mythological works are notable for not idealizing their subjects.
The French discovery of Velázquez came at a time when artists were breaking from a long-standing tradition of Classicism, which shunned Realism in favor of idealized subjects and painterly technique that obscured the artist’s hand. In Paris, Sargent’s education was considered the best in the world. It emphasized compositional formulas based on the Greco-Roman tradition as interpreted by French masters such as Nicolás Poussin (French, 1594-1665) and, later, Jacques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825). Their approach to art required rigorous draftsmanship that often resulted in statuesque, figures in classical landscapes or architecture. This interpretation of classicism was the official style in Europe for nearly 300 years. The rigidity of Academic painting limited the kinds of subjects artists could produce for competition and patronage.
José de Ribera (Spanish, 1591-1652) El sueño de Jacob (1639) Oil on canvas. 179 by 233 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
When Louis-Philippe opened his Galerie Espagnole in 1835, works by Velázquez, José de Ribera (Spanish, 1591-1652) and Francisco Zurburán (Spanish, 1598-1664) were introduced to the French public for the first time. Working at the same time as the founding fathers of French art, these Spanish artists offered an alternate classicism that emphasized nature.
The study of Velázquez’s work changed a generation of French artists’ approach. Unlike many Academic painter, Velázquez was unafraid to leave distinguishable brushstrokes on his canvases. Thick strokes of paint are clearly visible, demonstrating both his virtuosic skills–capable of reproducing an astonishing array of textures–and making the painting more of a three-dimensional work. His palette is limited, almost exclusively earth tones. When Velázquez did use color, it was muted, rather than garish; and, therefore, subjects appear more lifelike. Whether painting mythological figures, royal portraits, or multi-layered religious narratives, Velázquez captures the natural surroundings and features of his subjects without idealizing them. As a result, he exalts and dignifies the truth while simultaneously making them more approachable.
Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) Martínez Montañés ejecutando el busto de Felipe IV (c. 1635) Oil on canvas. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid
In Crucifixion, Sargent paints one of Velázquez’s most repeated subjects: the crucified Christ. It is important to note that, rather than the actual cricified Christ, both Velázquez and Sargent painted wooden crucifixes. Velázquez was influenced and mentored by the Spanish sculptor Juan Martínez Montañés (1568-1649).
Juan Martínez Montañés (Spanish, 1568-1645( Cristo de la Clemencia o de los Cálices (c. 1604) Seville, Spain
Known as the Michelangelo of wood, Montañés created hundreds of religious sculptures that are still in use in religious festivals. The crucifix in Velázquez’s La venerable madre Jerónima de la Fuente (c. 1620) and Sargent’s Crucifixion are both based on Montañés models.
Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) La venerable madre Jerónima de la Fuente (c. 1620) Oil on canvas. 160 by 110 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.
In his Crucifixion, Sargent captures a private moment of meditation on Christ’s sacrifice. The crucifix hangs on a chapel wall while light streams from an upper window.
John Singer Sargent (American, 1856-1925 ) Crucifix (1879) Oil on canvas. Private Collection. Detail.
Using a wooden crucifix, rather than a realistic Christ, emphasizes the religious experience of the viewer, rather than Christ’s experience on the cross. This is a meditation on what reflecting on the crucifixion means to the viewer well after the event has taken place. Sargent capitalizes on this reflection by using Velázquez’s technique of broad visible brushstrokes. This allows the mind of the viewers to fill in the details and, therefore, participate in the subject in a way that incites the imagination like no detailed rendition could. Sargent also adopts Velázquez’s use of ochres. The nearly monochrome palette draws greater attention to Sargent’s remarkable brushwork, which like Velázquez, is unabashedly visible, at times broadly defining Christ figure and at others using miniscule strokes.
These hallmarks of Velázquez’s technique were studied and absorbed by Sargent. He transmuted them into his own French education and used the two to become the world’s most sought-after portraitist and, arguably, the greatest American painter of the nineteenth century.
Henry Scott Tuke, R.A. (British, 1858-1929) Lord Ronald Gower (1897) Oil on canvas 24 by 20 in. National Portrait Gallery, London.
The youngest son of the powerful Duke of Sutherland, Lord Ronald Gower (British, 1845-1916) was educated at Eton and Cambridge. He distinguished himself as a popular politician, serving in the British Parliament from 1867-1874. Following his political career, Gower became an unlikely, critically-acclaimed sculptor and an historical writer. In the words of his mother, the Duchess of Sutherland, Gower had “a certain unpractical side of his character.”
Gower’s first serious attempt at sculpting was, ironically, for his mother’s grave in 1868. He collaborated with Matthew Noble (British, 1818-1876) who was hired for a memorial befitting the Duchess. Noble was the son of a stonemason who studied sculpture in London. Chronically ill from childhood, Noble nonetheless exhibited regularly at the Royal Academy’s annual exhibition until he died at the age of 58. Though Gower mentions Noble as a major influence in his artistic development, the ex-politician was largely self-taught.
Untrained and unmotivated by financial gain, Gower was derisively considered a “gentleman sculptor.” Despite all this, his work received international critical and popular praise. Gower’s sculptures were accepted to the Paris Salons of 1880 and 1881, the Paris International Exhibition of 1878, and numerous competitions at the Royal Academy, placed alongside sculptures by Alfred Leighton.
Lord Ronald Gower (British, 1845-1916) Marie Antoinette (1876) Bronze. Height: 46 in. Private National Gallery, London.
The first public sculpture by Lord Gower was Marie Antoinette (1876), completed two years after his retirement from politics. Eight years later, Gower published Marie Antoinette: An Historical Sketch (1885). Both the sculpture and the book were part of a larger late-nineteenth-century reexamination of Marie Antoinette’s reputation. Gower’s works joined a chorus of scholars who asserted that the Queen was a scapegoat of unrestrained revolutionary fervor.
During French Revolution of 1789, angry mobs successfully captured King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette. The King was quickly executed, while the Queen was kept under arrest, where she reportedly refused to eat or move. In the weeks that followed, révolutionnaires cast Marie Antoinette as the personification of Royal excess and frivolity. Her fate became a national debate. During a two-day show trail, filled with unsubstantiated accusations of gross immorality, Marie Antoinette refused to defend herself, saying “If I have not replied it is because Nature itself refuses to respond to such a charge laid against a mother.” Fearing rising sympathy for the deposed Queen, the Revolutionary Tribunal cut short her trial. A mother of four and 37 years old, Marie Antoinette was publicly and summarily beheaded on October 16, 1789 at 12:15 p.m. The incident was famously captured by Jacques-Louis David, a passionate supporter of the revolution–in his humiliating sketch of the Queen on the platform of the guillotine.
Jaques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825) Marie Antoinette one the Day of Execution (October 16, 1793) Pen and ink on paper. 150 by 100 mm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.
Lord Gower’s sculpture Marie Antoinette (1876) preceded his biography by nine years, indicating the subject had preoccupied him for some time. Gower depicts the deposed Queen being led to the guillotine. With hands tied behind her back and hair shorn to elicit further humiliation, the deposed Queen walks forward, resolutely and unbowed.
The work is not a technical masterpiece. Anatomically it is more stylistic than correct. Like so many of the the artists featured on this blog, there are very few examples of Gower’s work available for public view and almost no images to speak of. However, Gower’s last work, Hamlet (1888) is perhaps his best and most memorable.
In 1883, the city of Stratford-Upon-Avon commissioned Lord Gower to create a memorial to the city’s most famous citizen: William Shakespeare. Gower worked for five years at his own expense. (In his memoirs, Gower claims it cost him an average of £500 per year, which he never charged the city.)
Lord Ronald Gower (British, 1845-1916) Hamlet (1888) Bronze. Life-size. Stratford-upon-Avon, United Kingdom. Photo via Wall Flower Gone Wild, Flickr.
Though he lived another 28 years, Lord Gower declared the monument his last work and never sculpted again.
