The matter of likeness, which troubles most people, is of vital importance to the “portrait-painter,” since it is his sole excuse, the only justification he has for existing, but to art it does not matter at all.
Likeness has no objective existence. It is entirely a matter of impression, a subjective realization. Beyond the size of the mouth, the shape of the nose, the color of the eyes there is little to what is called a “likeness.” A person never looks the same to different people or on different occasions.
To the casual acquaintance a “likeness” is but skin deep; to the friend of a lifetime it is altogether a matter of character. A portrait that satisfies a wife fails to please a mother, and one that provokes the applause of the passing throng is a disappointment to the family.
For what is one man’s appearance to another but the impact of personality upon personality, the coming together of two vitalities clothed in flesh and blood. But some there are who see only the clothes of another,—the very outward shell and husk; others who see only the flesh and blood,—the physical covering; others who get at the man and know him in part as he is. For whom shall the portrait be painted,—for those who see, or those who know, or those who love? And by whom shall the portrait be painted,—by the tailor-painter or by the soul-painter?
The world is filled with painters of the superficial, with painters of husks; and those are the painters who impress the multitude, for they see what the multitude see, and there is no mystery to puzzle, but everything is superficial and plain.
A likeness is the physical semblance of the soul; and the only likeness worth having on canvas or in marble or in words is the faithful transcript of the impression the sitter makes on the artist.
From the fact that this impression changes and deepens from hour to hour, and day to day, and week to week, as the two beings come to know each other, it follows that the best portrait can only be painted after sufficient acquaintance for the dissipation of those superficial traits and characteristics which envelop everyone like a fog.
It is the special province of caricature to seize upon a man’s superficialities and peculiarities, and make the most or the worst of them; but it is the business of portraiture to get beneath and give a glimpse, an impression of the true man.
To this end Whistler’s many and long sittings were of inestimable service. The portrait grew with his acquaintance with his sitter. What first pleased him as a scheme of color and an agreeable personality came in time to interest him as a human being, with the result in the most successful canvases that the picture would be all he desired as a harmony, as a song without sound, and also a marvellously subtle realization of his impression of the human being he had learned to know.
In one respect the identity of a portrait is not a matter of entire indifference, for the attitude of the painter is more or less affected by his relation to the sitter, and whatever affects him affects his work.