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| APHRA BEHN | ||
| Engraving after a painting by Mary Beale | Engraving after a lost portrait by John Riley | (Detail in Reverse) Sir Peter Lely |
The name Aphra Behn did not ring a bell in December 1992 when William Moffett, Director of the Huntington Library, asked if I would be interested in painting her portrait.
As an introduction, I looked at Maureen Duffy’s biography, The Passionate Shepherdess, and at Angeline Goreau’s, Reconstructing Aphra. Both books contain black and white reproductions of the three known contemporary images of Aphra Behn; an engraving of a portrait thought to be by Mary Beale; and an engraving of a lost portrait by John Riley, and a portrait by Peter Lely, or perhaps his student, John Greenhill.
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It was clear at a glance that these three images bore only a limited resemblance to one another. I could see some correspondence between the Lely and the Riley, but the Beale looked like a different woman. Though I did not expect to find a photographic likeness of Behn, I was surprised at how dissimilar these images were.
In an effort to secure better reproductions, and in color, Bill Moffett wrote to the National Portrait Gallery in London asking if the Lely and the Beale portraits were extant and for their locations. The Gallery refused to disclose this information, but offered to forward Bill’s requests to the mysterious owners. In due course, Mr. Arthur Schlechter of New York sent a 5 x 7” color photo of his portrait of Aphra Behn by Lely. The owner of the Beale portrait did not respond, but having ascertained that the painting was still in existence, Bill and I continued the search.
Aphra Behn (Detail)
Sir Peter Lely
While visiting my family in California in July 1993, I stopped at the Huntington to look at the setting for the new portrait. Bill gave me reproductions of some very interesting 17th and 18th century portraits of literary women. Most of the figures were shown three-quarter length and were holding a pen or a book. I liked this format and began thinking of variations on the theme.
By the beginning of February, Bill had located the Beale portrait at St. Hilda’s College in Oxford, and had written to the principal, E.L. Llewellyn-Smith, requesting a color photo. Although the photograph itself was never forthcoming, quite serendipitously some weeks later I was invited to dinner with Miss Llewellyn-Smith at Mount Holyoke College near my home. When I asked her about the painting and the secrecy surrounding it, she looked puzzled and said, “It’s just a little brown thing hanging in the corner of the common room”, and this turned out to be an apt description—but more on that later.
Meanwhile, I got in touch with Arthur Schlechter in New York and arranged to see his portrait by Lely on March 5. The first thing I noticed on entering the room with the painting was that the photo I’d been given was backwards. This in itself would not have made a great deal of difference to me, but there were more serious discrepancies. In the photo, Behn appeared to have dark brown hair and dark eyes, and her clothing looked to be of silk or some other fine fabric.
The actual painting revealed a woman with a much fairer complexion, lighter hair, and hazel eyes. Far from being fancy, her clothing appeared to be made of plain wool, and what I had taken to be bits of jewelry were buttons. Here was a more placid and modest Aphra Behn than the photograph had led me to expect, and I was reminded of how misleading reproductions can be. Mr. Schlechter then showed me a much better reproduction on the cover of the paperback edition of The Passionate Shepherdess. This edition was out of print but I was able to get a later one with essentially the same cover though with a yellow cast.
It was clear from the start that the three images of Behn would not provide enough information for a new portrait, and that I would also have to use a live model, In order to find a model, I distributed fliers asking for Aphra Behn look-a-likes. While posting a flier in the theater building at Smith College, I stopped to talk with the costume mistress and asked if I might borrow a suitable outfit.
Heather as Aphra Behn
Within a day or two several callers responded to my appeal for a model including Heather, a Smith student, who had been spotted by the head of the theater department and was eager to pose. Fortunately, Heather also had experience in historic costuming, and with the help of the costume mistress, made herself an gown very like the one in the Lely portrait. She also made an appointment to have her hair done in the appropriate style, and thus coiffed and costumed, a 17th century apparition, Heather arrived for a photo session on Saturday afternoon, March 12th.
Meanwhile, I looked in the Smith College art library for other examples of contemporary portraits, and though I found nothing specific, I came upon two very useful items; J. Douglas Stewart’s, Sir Godfrey Kneller and the English Baroque Portrait; and Thomas Sully’s, Hints to Young Painters. This charming pamphlet for aspiring portraitists included a palette with Sully’s selection of colors painted in by hand, and a foldout chart showing the exact size and placement of the head and its features for both male and female subjects.
As a self-taught portrait painter, I would have welcomed an opportunity to study with a teacher like Thomas Sully, and I remain interested in such technical matters. Sully’s color mixtures proved quite useful, as were his instructions for the placement of the figure.
In planning my portrait of Aphra Behn, the first matters to be decided were what size to make it and how much of the figure to include. As I have said, I originally thought of showing Behn standing or sitting with a pen or a book in her hand. From the book on Kneller, however, I learned that due to the way linen canvas was woven in the 17th and 18th centuries, there were three standard portrait formats; the bust, which was approximately 76cm x 63cm (30” x 25”); the three-quarter figure, which was 127cm x 101cm (50” x 40”); and the full-length figure at 228cm x 152cm (90” x 60”). The choice of size generally depended on the rank and wealth of the sitter, with royalty and high nobility portrayed full-length and individuals of modest social and financial standing limited to the head and shoulders. Since all extant portraits of Aphra Behn are busts, I decided to follow tradition on this point.
Having determined the size and the format of the painting and prepared the canvas, I made three full-scale drawings on paper; one of my model, Heather; one after Lely; and a composite drawing of the two. This revealed Heather’s plusses and minuses as a stand-in, and also pinpointed some of the peculiarities of the Lely rendering, such as the location of the eyes.
Normally, the mid-point of the human head, from top to bottom, falls somewhere around the inner corners of the eyes and the bridge of the nose. Lely, however, has placed the eyes well above this point as may be done by an unsophisticated or naive painter. A slight exaggeration of this sort could be viewed stylistically as a mannerist tendency, but the effect in this case verges on abnormality. No one looks like this.
 Head Mid Points- Sarah H., Aphra by Lely, Heather |
The Riley, though also somewhat unsophisticated, is better on this point. There is a resemblance between these two likenesses in the hairstyle, heavy eyebrows, long nose, and full lower lip. But what is strangely absent from both faces is any suggestion of the wit and humor that must have enlivened Aphra Behn’s expression.
There is a flicker of amusement around the eyes in Mary Beale’s version of Behn. Again we see the prominent lower lip and the expressive eyebrow, but the aquiline nose, broad forehead, loosely falling hair and full figure, set this portrait apart. Also worth noting is an interesting disjunction between the carefully delineated head and clothing, and the amorphous bosom. Possibly the engraver wasn’t good at bosoms, though the vagueness of the rendering might reflect current taste.
I worked on a composite drawing until I had the general outline of a pleasant, well-proportioned young woman, and then I transferred this to the large canvas.
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First Sketch
oil 30.5 x 25.5 cm
Next, I began a small preparatory study to serve as a dress rehearsal for the final production. I had before me photos of the two engravings and the Lely portrait, plus my own sketches. Before long, there appeared a drawing of still another figure--a smiling, confident, most engaging woman—surely Aphra Behn in essence, if not substance. It was as if, tired of my clumsy efforts, Aphra herself had decided to take matters in hand. I was so surprised, so excited, that I couldn’t sit still and went for a walk. When I returned, I set the little sketch aside as a guiding presence, and started over again on a new study.
From that point on, I felt confident that the inspiration I would certainly need to carry out this assignment would be forthcoming, despite the difficulties that doubtless lay ahead.
Self Portrait
Bartolomé Esteban Murillo
Following Lely’s design, for the overall design I chose a variation on a common oval format, a frame within a frame. I also followed Lely’s choice of colors for the dress and shawl. But we parted company when it came to the background; my feminist sensibility refusing to allow Behn to fade into the standard brownish-blackish void.
With the preparatory study as a guide, I returned to the large canvas on April 7th and painted in the dress and background. As a rule, I do not begin with the head for two reasons; first, because I can more accurately judge its color and tone when the surrounding areas are painted in.
As I have suggested, the elements of a painting are relative to one another. Blue looks greenish when next to purple, and purplish when next to green. Dark looks light when next to something darker and vice-versa, so that one cannot be sure of anything until everything is at least roughly in place. A preparatory study is very useful, but the change if scale itself can change other things.
My second reason for doing the head last is because it is the most difficult and tiring part of a portrait, and when it is done, I like to be done with the painting altogether as quickly as possible.
Once the rest of the painting was more or less set, I began to work on the head. At first I tried to reconcile the differences between the Beale, Lely and Riley portraits, but like pieces from different puzzles, they just didn’t go together. The longer I looked at them, the more distracting their subtle, and not so subtle, peculiarities became. For example, having grown used to the eyes in the Lely portrait, I repeatedly caught the eyes in my own painting migrating toward the top of the head. After enough of this confusion, I took one last look at the three images, committed to memory the features they had in common, and put the photos in a drawer. From here on in, I was on my own.
When I first started to think about this portrait, I wondered how I could create a life-like figure of Aphra Behn and still maintain her 17th century presence. I wanted to paint Behn as I would paint anyone else, and to do this there would need to be a connection of some sort between us. Thus far, one step had led to the next, but now I had reached the end of the path and was facing uncharted territory (a familiar enough experience for Behn herself, I thought).
The fact was I could not know the true color of Aphra Behn’s eyes or the shape of her nose. The best I could hope to do would be to paint a portrait that might resemble her physically and that could suggest the prodigious spirit of a woman who was greatly gifted, learned, bold, adventurous, resourceful, humorous, passionate, and sensual—a lover of men and perhaps of women.
With this in mind, I set about to create a face for the figure I would call Aphra Behn.
It was very difficult to select the best angle for the head and then to figure out the correct proportion and placement of each feature. I would work for hours in the morning, and satisfied at last, would take a lunch break. On returning, I could see instantly that something was wrong. The left eye was higher than the right—that was it. I lowered the left eye, but then the angle of the nose was off, and so I fixed that. But then the mouth needed to be changed. With the left eye, the nose and the mouth all reconfigured, the right eye now needed adjusting, which made the left eye skewed once again--and so it went.
Sarah H.
At times, progress seemed incremental, and I looked everywhere for help. The work of John Singer Sargent proved very useful, particularly his drawing of the pianist Myra Hess, and the portrait of Lady Agnew. I also looked carefully at Sir Godfrey Kneller’s work. I did oil studies from life of two more women; one for the eyes, and the other for the hair, and I took snapshots of a friend’s daughter with a wonderful face.
In fact, I scrutinized faces everywhere. A trip to the supermarket had a double agenda; to buy food, and to observe how the sinews of the neck are attached to the collarbone.
When all else failed, I posed for myself, and in doing so made an interesting discovery; namely, why there often seems to be a physical resemblance between an artist and the figures he paints. I recalled an art professor of mine speculating on the meaning of the resemblance between the painter Caravaggio and his portrait of Bacchus. The explanation is probably quite simple; with Bacchus not readily available for sittings, Caravaggio posed himself.
After a prolonged but rewarding effort, I finished the painting on July 31, exactly four months after starting. As has often happened, the moment of completion was a very palpable one. The painting seemed to pull back and detach itself, as though embarking upon a life of its own. Tired, but happy, I rejoiced and called on Aphra Behn to do so, too.
 Aphra Behn |
Aphra Behn by Mary Beale
Early in September, I made an unexpected trip to England on family business and while there, I went to St. Hilda’s to see their elusive Beale portrait. It turned out to be only about 25 x 20cm (10” x 8”), “a little brown thing hanging in the corner of the common room”, as described. I offered a mental apology to the engraver whose copy obviously enhanced it. I might add that I don’t believe this painting is really by Mary Beale, and this may be why it is not listed in the catalogue of her work.
As a final offering of thanks, I went to Westminster Abbey on a sunny Saturday afternoon and laid flowers on Aphra Behn’s tomb. Behn is buried beneath the cloister walkway under a large black stone inscribed;
Here lies a proof that wit can never be
Defense enough against mortality.
I placed the flowers to one side where they would be least stepped on and stood back against the wall. Most of the crowd seemed unaware of the tombstone beneath their feet, but those who saw the flowers paused to note that they were for Mrs. Aphra Behn.
For me, this first and final meeting with Aphra Behn was a very moving experience. At last I was in the presence of her physical reality. I felt her spiritual presence, too. Silently, I apologized for misrepresenting her appearance, and hoped she knew that I had done my best. I expressed my great admiration, thanked her again for her inspiration, and then walked back through the crowd and out into the sunlight.
Huntington Library Installation
One year after finishing my painting, I came across one more image of Aphra Behn—a very small pencil drawing (8 x13cm) done by George Scharf in 1873 of a portrait that is now lost. Perhaps one day it will resurface, and if it does, I believe it will turn out to be the best of all the contemporary portraits of Aphra Behn. Scharf fails to identify either the artist or the painting’s location, but he does add the following description;
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Eyeballs dark slate, eyebrows dark brown. Hair intensely dark rich brown, no ornaments, very full and hanging over her right shoulder, painted with red-brown shadows and greenish middle tints in the style of Closterman. Very clever and powerful—called, “Mrs. Behn”. |
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