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| A photograph of the original |
John Singer Sargent, born to American parents in Florence, Italy (1856), was considered the leading portrait painter of his era. In 1884, he exhibited in Paris what would eventually be considered a masterpiece; at the time, Paris society hated the painting and his reputation suffered. He fled to London.
Sargent named the portrait "Madame X" and the only thing that exists of the original as it hung in the Paris salon is a photograph. The artist repainted the original (with right shoulder strap in place), which now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
The painting was viewed as scandalous, but seems very mild compared to today's standards for modesty and indecency. I've written a flash fiction piece based on this...a very short story that I, too, call
Madame X. Thanks for reading, and if you're interested in more short stories, I've shared a few on this blog. Just check out the links to the right. As always, copyright applies (
©Veronica Randolph Batterson).
Madame X
By Veronica Randolph
Batterson
(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau.
Elle est un opportuniste.
He fidgeted with
his hands, pulling at the collar of his shirt as if doing so would loosen the
tightness around his neck. The
room was warm and sweat formed at his hairline, the rivulets running down his
face and into his eyes. He patted
his forehead with a handkerchief and thought he would be ill. Soon there would be an audience.
Madame Pierre
Gautreau, the artist’s dream, agreed to his request; she consented to sit for
him. A vision. And he had painted her as such. Sensual, regal, beautiful and
unusual, her powdered skin and its lavender hue stood pasty and stark against
the black dress. The velvet bodice
cut low over her breasts and held in place with two slim, jeweled straps. He had been nervous at first. Reflecting, perhaps that had lent to
his displeasure and uncertainty of the painting.
Monsieur Sargent? Will this work?
With her left hand
she had gripped the velvet skirt while clutching the edge of a side table with
the right one. Her patrician
profile exuded nobility; she was untouchable. In an instant, it happened. The slightest movement that changed everything. The jeweled shoulder strap dropped
suggestively from her right shoulder.
How do I look? The little slip was painted into
the portrait.
Salle 31. 1884.
He waited for the
unveiling as Paris society ambled into the salon, unforgiving and judgmental. Champagne flowed amidst fluttery ladies
on the arms of stodgy gentlemen. A
violinist performed but he could barely hear the music, so loud was the beat of
his own heart. He thought of
leaving. There his Madame X stood
at eye level. The Gautreau that
everyone flocked to view.
John Singer Sargent.
The artist who painted
a scandalous portrait of a difficile
woman; it hadn’t been as he had hoped.
He knew the outcome of his folly and Amélie had known what she was
doing, toying with him. Feigning
innocence. Indolent. How foolish
he had been for following instincts instead of reason. Now he would pay with his reputation.
Arriviste. Ceci est scandaleux!
The gasps caught
his attention. Vulgaire. Choquant. Indécent. The whispers grew as one voice, loud,
biting and cruel. They shouted his
recklessness and relished his mistake, declaring the end for him in Paris while
clucking at his foolishness. L’artiste a échoué! There was spiteful glee in his failure. He was humiliated. Some were repulsed by the pallor of her
skin; most were shocked by the revealing décolletage. Trop sensuelle.
He had exhibited
at the Palais de Industrie for six
years and was the preferred portrait artist of Paris. The mocking confirmed it was over. How could this happen, such fickleness? Dejected, he felt he must
retrieve the portrait before the Gautreau family obtained and destroyed
it. Then he would flee to
London.
Au revoir, Monsieur Sargent.
He left. Bitter, disappointed and angry. To start over. Optimiste.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
There is a road
in Colorado that has earned its name.
Officially called the Virginia Canyon Road, its more famous moniker
expresses a person’s state of mind when traveling it. The “Oh-My-God-Road” (yes, it is listed on maps and found on
the web as such), runs from Idaho Springs to Central City in Clear Creek
County, passing through historic mining areas and Russell Gulch Ghost
Town. As I’ve never traveled this
scenic route, I can only assume the endearment flies from the mouths of
passengers as they encounter 12% grade sections along a graveled two-way road
(not quite wide enough for two cars), with guardrail-free drop-offs, washed-out
shoulders and no winter maintenance.
Not for the faint of heart.
