The Portrait That Sargent Forgot

Is it possible for an artist entirely to forget his own creation? One would be inclined to think not, yet the following is an absolutely true story of one of the world’s great painters.

A portrait by John Singer Sargent hangs on the wall of my dining room at ‘Sol’s Cliff’ on Mount Desert Island, Maine. It is of Benjamin P. Kissam, once a well-known New York banker, and was painted in London thirty years ago in five sittings.

It is a brilliant full-face portrait of a slight, pink and white old gentleman with soft white hair and beard and flowing white moustache. He wears a dark-colored business suit that merges into a background of indefinite bronzegreen. An impression of punctilious neatness is conveyed by the turn-down collar, the soft bow tie, the pearl stud, and the white handkerchief which protrudes from the pocket of the sack coat. The face is highly intelligent, the expression at once whimsical, shrewd, immensely tolerant, but the slanting blue eyes are a little sad and worldweary. Keen but kindly, they follow one everywhere.

‘An elderly successful man of affairs,’one might say. ‘An amiable, perspicacious old gentleman, who knows a thing or two, has had some hard knocks and survived them, but whose innate sense of values is too sound to take his own success too highly. A country lad, perhaps, grown old in city harness, who would like to retire to the farm and go fishing — sometime.’ It is a face one would remember. An arresting portrait — done with all the dash and certainty characteristic of the artist. It is signed ‘John S. Sargent’ in the upper left-hand corner; and dated ‘1890’ in the upper right-hand.

For thirty years it was not signed.

Mr. Sargent was lunching with me one day in the summer of 1921. He was sitting with his back to the portrait. Halfway through the meal I said to him: —

‘Please take a look at that portrait behind you, Mr. Sargent, and tell me what you think of it.’

The artist half turned, and glanced up over his shoulder at the picture.

‘H’m!’ he said. ‘Very good! Very good indeed! An excellent piece of work! ’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ I replied with a smile.

‘Who did it?’ he asked with a polite show of interest.

We all laughed.

'You did,’ I answered.

Sargent eyed me suspiciously, evidently thinking I was ‘ragging’ him.

‘I mean it,’ I assured him.

Seeing that I was serious, he looked at it again, then shook his head impatiently.

‘You must be mistaken,’he declared. ‘I haven’t the slightest recollection either of the sitter or of painting the picture.'

‘Well, you did!' I retorted.

‘Who is the subject? When was it done?’ he inquired.

‘Benjamin P. Kissam of New York. You painted it in London in 1890 in five sittings.’

By this time everybody’s attention was concentrated on Mr. Sargent’s bewildered expression. The artist got up and faced the portrait.

‘It is n’t possible!’ he reiterated. ‘I don’t remember a thing about it!'

Then, taking a glass from his pocket, he went over the canvas in detail.

‘Well,’ we heard him mutter after a few moments, ‘it looks like me!' Then in a tone of half-incredulous amusement, ‘It is me!’

By this time we had all arisen from the table and had joined him around the portrait.

‘Yes, that is mine,’ he admitted. ‘Although I’ve no recollection of it, I recognize my work.’

‘Are you sure you did it?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely,’ he replied.

‘What makes you so certain?’ I persisted.

Mr. Sargent pointed to the edge of the white handkerchief in the coat pocket.

‘Do you see that green line around the white? That settles it for me. I recognize my own style, of course, but the handkerchief is conclusive as far as I am concerned.’

We all studied the handkerchief, but without perceiving its significance.

‘I have an astigmatism,’ he explained, ‘that makes me see a red or green line around white objects. Often I paint it in. I have done so here. That green border obviously is not part of the handkerchief. It’s a sort of penumbra. By it I can absolutely identify this portrait as mine. I am prepared to qualify as an expert on my own work!’

‘Why did n’t you sign it?’

The artist gave a shrug.

‘If it was painted in five sittings it was probably done in a hurry, and I forgot to. If you have any paints I’ll gladly do so now.’

It so happened that, since we had a daughter of artistic tendencies, there were paints in the house. While I was fetching them Mr. Sargent took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, lifted the portrait from the wall, and removed it from the frame. Together with paint, brushes, turpentine, and palette, we carried it into the adjacent library, where he cleaned and moistened the brush, squeezed his usual vermilion upon the palette, and signed the portrait.

‘A hundred years from now, ’ he said, ‘there’ll be a battle between experts as to the authenticity of this picture. They will be able to prove from the condition of the paint that, while the portrait was made in 1890 and is so dated, it was not signed until 1921. However, that need n’t worry us now. Let ’em fight it out among themselves when the time comes!’

Since my regard for experts is perhaps greater than that of Mr. Sargent, I record this anecdote both to save these gentlemen from unnecessary confusion and to ensure the listing of the Kissam portrait among the painter’s authentic works.