Portrait of a Girl

Written by Samara Watts.

I never usually come to these kinds of things. I mean the art’s lovely. No one can deny that. It’s just… See look! That man there. This is exactly what I’m talking about. He looks like he’s been yanked by his slicked sideburns and hauled from the eighteenth century, polished loafers scraping stubbornly on the way.

His voice rattles against the tinkle of a piano and the glass droplets of the chandelier.

See the way she cradles the lamb, the motherly instinct that seizes the girl already as she merges with the natural landscape.

He bares a grin at his posse of tailcoats, teeth and bowties artificially white. They’re all smiling and nodding, eyes wide and unseeing.

Another champagne?

I drift silently from painting to painting. The pale greens cast a dream-like scene, beckoning from inside their gold leaf frames to the cold marble walls of the gallery. I could reach out, but-

It’s a study on Lenbach, of course. Some say he fell in love with Lenbach’s sister, but was unable to consummate his passion for fear of losing their close friendship. Knowing his feelings and that he also could not have her, he depicts her in this innocent state, untainted by the desires of men.

No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Look at her smile. She’s provoking him, and he’s allowing her to. The lamb in her arms is a red herring. Look at her feet, they mirror the ewe next to her. They’re lovers already, even if Lenbach is too foolish to realise it.

Their voices rise. The first man pulls his smile taut as he tries to conceal the redness growing up his neck. A stout man with trendy round spectacle interjects.

Certainly, it was inspired by Le Jardin. Any art history book will tell you that.

Every painting after 1873 can be attributed to Le Jardin! I believe it is for his mother. He was very fond of her, and she was known to wear such pastel colours.

A crowd begins to form. The painting really is beautiful. The young woman is glancing down at the Ewe next to her, cheek brushing against the lamb in her arms. A branch of lilac peace lilies twists to lean in conspiratorially towards the group; they exist in a secret club, unaware or uncaring about the gazes on them.

It's basically a knock-off Lorrain.

And that was it. I continue to look as the men saunter away looking for their next target, and others come to admire and then go.

Suddenly another voice, soft and rasping.

They’re all wrong, you know.

I glance at the stooping frame of the old woman beside me. I am surprised to see her standing there. She has dyed black hair showing streaks of grey, which she has tied up haphazardly. Her bony hands clutch a worn moleskin book, and there is ink on her fingers. She grins, eyes flashing behind cracked skin.

It wasn’t stolen from Lorrain. She was much better than him.

I’m not sure if I heard her correctly. She?

My grandmother. Catharina Hofner – yes, yes, I know. She had to submit under her brother’s name. That’s my great aunt, her sister.

She nods towards the painting.

She’s not the only one in this room. Forgotten by history, but living on forever. That Calvert with the mountains, the Anderson… Oh, they could never understand it. If they knew the truth their spectacled eyeballs would fairly drop out of their arseholes.

She winks, and beyond the laughter in her eyes there is also triumph, and sadness.

We turn back to the painting again and keep looking as two pompous young men march by. Their conquering gazes peel the painting off the wall before crumpling it in a ball and tossing it aside as they move on to claim something else.

We stay there until there’s nobody else, and then I leave as well.