Wherein the art of Whistler differed from the art of Rembrandt and Velasquez in the painting of human likenesses is as follows:
With Whistler the sitter, whether model or patron, was subordinated to the composition, to the harmony of line and color,—was simply an integral part of the larger scheme in the painter’s mind.
With Rembrandt and Velasquez the sitter was the important feature, everything else being quite casual; the object in mind being to paint a great portrait, to put a human being on canvas. A worthy object when worthily done, but not quite so pure and subtle and abstract, not quite so free from limitations of time and place and person as the intention to do something of universal validity in which the individual shall not obtrude beyond his due measure of importance.
In the attempt to do things that had never been done before, in the attempt to make painting as pure an art as music and poetry, Whistler possibly made many failures, or rather many more or less incomplete successes, but in his best things it is undeniably true that he produced pictures wherein the portrait element was as subtly if not as “strongly” developed as in anything ever before painted, and wherein at the same time that element was successfully subordinated to ideals more refined and universal.
Both Rembrandt and Velasquez did “stronger” things than Whistler,—that is to say, they placed their subjects more positively and forcefully on the canvas, so that they stand out more aggressively, and fill not only their frames but the room; they do not obtrude, but they are great big characterizations which make themselves felt in any company.
Whistler’s portraits, like all his pictures, retire within their frames, do not assert themselves, are not “strong,” as the term is quite legitimately used in the sense of powerful, positive, and vigorous. His portraits are neither “stunning” nor overwhelming; they are so quiet, restful, and harmonious as to almost escape notice. There is a wraith-like quality about some of them that has often been noted; some of them seem the portraits of shadows rather than realities.
A woman standing before “The Fur Jacket” said:
“So that is a portrait of a woman by Whistler?”
“No,” replied her companion; “it is Whistler’s impression of a woman.”
Neither was right,—for, as a matter of fact, it is simply a composition of line and color wherein a woman—in this case a model—is the central figure of the arrangement. The painting of a likeness was not in Whistler’s mind at all. The painting of a woman, either as a type or an individual, probably did not enter his head; but he had in mind a scheme which pleased him, and this scheme he placed on canvas. It is quite likely the woman happened to enter his studio, and the effect of figure, costume, and environment caught his fancy. That was the way many of the portraits were begun.