In a recent trip to New York, I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s John Singer Sargent exhibit in order to bask in the work of the greatest portrait artist of the twentieth century. I had only seen his paintings once before, in Chicago, which quickly converted me into a worshipper of his larger-than-life portraits of the wives of capitalists adorned in silks and pearls and chiffons, the materials rendered with brushstrokes so effusive and instinctive that portraits from the masters that came before him seemed stagnant in comparison.
At the Met, I was finally reunited with these paintings and many more — all showing a painterly grasp of human expression that clearly had no time for the hagiography for which Sargent was likely hired. The expressions he captured on faces were so real, so momentary and subtle, that it’s hard to believe they were the product of hundreds of hours of careful painting and not the momentary release of a shutter. Sargent found his art in the midst of painting for the oligarchs of the time, and he found a way to both aggrandize and humanize them all the same. The material contradictions of his day were transmuted into something ecstatic.











