National Portrait Gallery | Face to Face blog

May 31, 1819: The Birth of Walt Whitman

On December 13, 1862, the Union army suffered a disastrous defeat at the Battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia; among the 9,600 wounded was George Whitman, brother of the poet. On hearing the news, Walt Whitman immediately headed south. When found, George was only slightly hurt, but the trip was a nightmare journey into the hell of modern war. The charnel house that was the battle’s aftermath deeply affected Whitman. In response to what he saw, Whitman became a nurse, comforting the wounded and writing hundreds of letters to their families for them. He recorded the soldiers’ suffering and death, bearing witness to their solitary martyrdom within a society that grew more impersonal by the day. Poetically, this act of witnessing reinvigorated Whitman’s writing with a tragic sense of the individual’s transcendental importance.

In the same way that Walt Whitman’s passionate poetry removes the mysteries of romance and replaces those mysteries with an earthy and verdant joyfulness, so Whitman’s war poetry destroys the myth of the hero and replaces it with the visceral images of the battlefield. More than half a century before Wilfred Owen’s devastatingly micrographic observation of battle, Dulce et Decorum Est, Whitman writes:

A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown,
A route through a heavy wood with muffled steps in the darkness,
Our army foil'd with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating,
Till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted building,
We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted building,
'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads, now an impromptu hospital,
Entering but for a minute I see a sight beyond all the pictures and
     poems ever made,
Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and lamps,
And by one great pitchy torch stationary with wild red flame and
     clouds of smoke,
By these, crowds, groups of forms vaguely I see on the floor, some
     in the pews laid down,
At my feet more distinctly a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of
bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen,)
I stanch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white as a lily,)
Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene fain to absorb it all,
Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity,
     some of them dead,

Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether,
     odor of blood,
The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside also fill'd,
Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the
     death-spasm sweating,
An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls,
The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of
     the torches,
These I resume as I chant, I see again the forms, I smell the odor,
Then hear outside the orders given, Fall in, my men, fall in;
But first I bend to the dying lad, his eyes open, a half-smile gives he me,
Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness,
Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks,
The unknown road still marching.

Whitman’s volunteer efforts in Washington, D.C., were divided among several hospitals, among them the one installed in the Old Patent Office Building, now the home of the National Portrait Gallery and the Smithsonian American Art Museum. Whitman mentions the structure several times in his journals, and in one of his notes he calls it “the noblest of Washington buildings.” You can learn more about the history if the Old Patent Office Building in NPG's online exhibition "Temple of Invention: A History of a National Landmark."

Whitman spent his last years in Camden, New Jersey, and his home there is now a museum. He is buried nearby, in Harleigh Cemetery. Saturday, May 31, would have been Walt Whitman’s 189th birthday. For more on Walt Whitman, visit the website for NPG's former exhibition "One Life: Walt Whitman, A Kosmos."  

 

Walt Whitman, 1819-1892 | George C. Cox (1851-1902) | Platinum print, 1887 | National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution; gift of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Feinberg

 

The Fighting Lady

In January of 1945 a new documentary, The Fighting Lady: A Drama of the Pacific, was released to the American public. Immediately popular, it was ultimately awarded the 1945 Oscar for Best Documentary and a 1946 New York Film Critics Circle Special Award.

Produced by the Naval Aviation Photographic Unit under Commander Edward J. Steichen, The Fighting Lady was filmed primarily by a group of motion-picture cameramen headed by Lieutenant Commander Dwight Long, USNR. Although Steichen was primarily a still photographer, he was listed as the director since he was the commander of the unit. The Fighting Lady is the only motion picture he ever directed. Learn more about Edward Steichen in the National Portrait Gallery's exhibition "Edward Steichen Portraits," on view until September 1, 2008.

Steichen had served as a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Air Service during World War I, and came out of that war as a pioneer in the field of aerial photo interpretation. In 1942, at the age of 62, he was considered by virtually everyone to be too old for further active service.

But Rear Admiral Arthur W. Radford, one of the Navy’s pioneer aviators, wanted to document the new warship of the Navy—the fast aircraft carrier—in action. The battleship, long the queen of the fleet, was being quickly usurped by this extremely flexible newcomer.

Specifically, Radford wanted dramatic action photos of the Navy’s carrier operations for use in publicizing this new form of warfare and attracting new recruits into its ranks. Steichen, as one of the foremost photographers of the time, could very well be the one to deliver them.

So with a medical waiver for his age in hand, Steichen became Lieutenant Commander Edward J. Steichen, USNR, and one of the most noted combat photographers of World War II.

The Fighting Lady gave wartime audiences, for the first time, a dramatic “you are there” look at the daily life on one of the new fast Essex-class fleet carriers then attacking Japanese installations all over the Pacific. The current PBS documentary Carrier is a direct descendant of this landmark documentary.

See The Fighting Lady and discuss the film with Jack Green of the Naval Historical Center on Friday, May 30, at 7:00 p.m. in the McEvoy Auditorium at the National Portrait Gallery, Donald W. Reynolds Center for American Art and Portraiture. The event is FREE and open to the public.

The Politics of Personality: Horace Greeley

The Liberal Republican Party—a heterogeneous group of reformers and old-line politicians brought together out of disgust for the cronyism and incompetence of Ulysses S. Grant’s Republican administration, assembled at Cincinnati on May 1, 1872, to select its presidential candidate. Chosen after the sixth ballot—to the surprise of many and the amusement of some—was Horace Greeley (1811–1872), editor of the influential New York Tribune, whose weekly edition was read throughout the country. Meeting at Baltimore in July, the Democrats, in the spirit of “Anything to Beat Grant,” moved to endorse Greeley, the man who had been vehemently attacking them for the last forty years.

Confident of his moral superiority, Greeley had long sought political office but had been successful only in filling an expired term in the House of Representatives. Pronounced Greely as he took to the hustings, “The money and office-holding power arrayed against us are fearfully formidable but we ought to win, so I guess we shall.”

Greeley was a man of vigorous opinions, which encompassed antislavery, westward expansion, free homesteading, agricultural improvement, high tariffs, reconciliation between North and South, temperance, vegetarianism, spiritualism, utopian socialism, and virtually every fad that came down the pike. “Uncle Horace” was eccentric, erratic, irascible, impulsive, often foolish, and sometimes “downright wrong-headed.” Dismayed by the nomination, the liberal journal The Nation editorialized that Greeley lacked what Napoleon called “Three o’clock in the morning courage”; he did not fit the image of the brave man “who roused from deep sleep, goes swiftly into the fight with nerves unshaken and every faculty on the alert.”

There was no question but that Greeley lent himself to ridicule. “He lays claim to greatness,” wrote a contemporary observer, “by wandering through the streets with a hat double the size of his head, a coat after the fashion of Jacob’s of old, with one leg of his pantaloons inside and the other outside of his boot.” A durable white coat was his particular trademark.

Early in the campaign, the brilliant cartoonist Thomas Nast satirized Greeley for the British humor magazine Vanity Fair. (The original watercolor drawing seen above came as a gift at the inception of America’s National Portrait Gallery from the National Portrait Gallery in London). Soon Nast, a great admirer of President Grant, became more hard-hitting—showing Greeley as an empty suit flapping in the breeze, as a monkey collecting votes from Tammany Hall, shaking hands with John Wilkes Booth over the grave of Abraham Lincoln, as a Confederate apologist.

Greeley was defeated in a landslide, carrying only six southern and border states. “I was the worst beaten man who ever ran for high office,” he wrote, “and have been assailed so bitterly that I hardly know whether I was running for President or the Penitentiary.” His wife had died six days before the election, and when he returned his beloved Tribune, he found his editorial power usurped by another. Greeley’s mind gave way, and he died insane before the electoral vote was counted.

Horace Greeley,1811-1872 / by Thomas Nast (1840-1902) / Watercolor on paper, 1872 / National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution

Gilbert Stuart, Artist and Entertainer

The impact of Gilbert Stuart’s (1755–1828) work on American portraiture is, of course, significant. And although he is most well known for his portraits of the Founding Fathers, his character was cut of an entirely different fabric. Gilbert Stuart is shown above, circa 1825, in a portrait by Sarah Goodridge from the National Portrait Gallery's collections.

Ellen Miles, curator of paintings and sculpture at NPG says of the artist, “Everything about Stuart is interesting! He spent the (Revolutionary) war years in England, and was married to an Englishwoman. Two of their children became artists. He painted the portraits directly on canvas, as did his English contemporaries, so there are no preparatory portrait drawings by him. He returned to America when he was thirty-eight specifically to paint portraits of George Washington.”

Stuart did not confine his time solely to his artistic industry, however; he liked to entertain. In his autobiography, Irish Varieties (1836), painter J. D. Herbert tells of Stuart’s legendary dinners when he lived near Dublin, Ireland in 1787-93:

He had a splendid house, and lived expensively. Amongst other servants, he kept a French cook. He began giving dinners, and invited forty-two persons to dine with him. Those were men of talent in some professional line—painters, poets, musicians, droll fellows, actors, and authors. After dinner he said to his friends, “I can’t have you all every day, but I will have seven of you to dine with me each day in the week; and I have contrived it so that the party shall vary without further trouble. I have put up seven cloak pins in my hall, so as the first seven that come may hang up their cloaks and hats; the eighth man, seeing these full, will go away, and probably attend earlier on the next day. Then it would not be likely that any one of the party of one day would come on the next, nor until the time for the forty-two should be expended; and Sunday should be excepted.” This compact was understood, and without trouble naming or writing, (he) had a different company every day, and no jealousies at a preference given to anyone.

Stuart’s extravagances took their toll on his income. In her book The Genius of Gilbert Stuart, NPG senior fellow Dr. Dorinda Evans states that, “He seemed to enjoy occupying a central position in what he deemed a ridiculous situation... He relished the tale of his finally submitting in 1789 to imprisonment for debt in Dublin’s Marshalsea Prison, where, to his glee, he received a constant succession of prominent and serious citizens who wished to have their portraits painted.”

Perhaps another irony Stuart would appreciate is the fact that although he struggled with debt, it is his image of George Washington that graces our dollar bill. 

The centerpiece of NPG’s “America’s Presidents” gallery is Stuart’s “Lansdowne” image of George Washington (above), and that portrait’s origin is as paradoxical as its artist. “It was painted for an Englishman who was sympathetic to the goals of the American Revolution,” states Miles. To learn more about the Lansdowne image, visit NPG's online exhibition "George Washington: A National Treasure."

Gilbert Stuart/Sarah Goodridge, c.1825/Watercolor on ivory/National Portrait Gallery

George Washington (Lansdowne portrait)/Gilbert Stuart, 1796/Oil on canvas/National Portrait Gallery; acquired as a gift to the nation through the generosity of the Donald W. Reynolds Foundation

Katharine Hepburn at NPG! Performance this Monday, May 12

On Monday night, May 12, the National Portrait Gallery's Cultures in Motion program will present Hepburn Herself, a stage presentation produced by NPG’s Jewell Robinson and featuring DC actress Helen Hedman as Katharine Hepburn.  The first performance in March was viewed by almost three hundred people and included a discussion afterwards with Robinson, Hedman, director Michael Kramer, and writer and adapter Warren Perry.  This Monday’s show will also conclude with a production discussion. 

Among the superlatives Katharine Hepburn claims are the four Academy Awards which are on display in the National Portrait Gallery’s “One Life” exhibition "KATE: A Centennial Celebration."  Miss Hepburn had a total of twelve nominations over her career, and many critics believe she also deserved Oscars for her unforgettable performances in The Philadelphia Story and The African Queen.  Her story begins with the beginning of Hollywood and concludes with curtains drawing over the most celebrated career in cinema history. 

A partial list of actors with whom she appeared is a roll call of the greatest actors in the history of film:  Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, John Barrymore, Peter O’Toole, Laurence Olivier, Sidney Poitier, and, of course, Spencer Tracy.  That all the arts contain legions of adults who operate their lives like pretentious children is a certainty; Kate Hepburn did not suffer such behavior, and she was, per biographer Charles Higham, “disgusted by the tawdry ostentation of Hollywood.”

Katharine Hepburn was both gutsy and vocal. She performed a stunt which involved falling into the dirty Venice canal waters during the filming of Summertime; this resulted in a case of conjunctivitis which never left her. Once from the stage during a performance she lectured an audience member who dared to take a flash picture. Another time, she hit a truck driver for revving his engine behind the theatre.

It is lucky for her admirers that she took the time to write two autobiographical works.  The most sensitive subjects in her life- the death of her brother Tom and her love for Spencer Tracy- we discover about her through her own words.  Her large number of biographers far exceeds the number of interviews she granted; throughout her days, she liked being liked, but she treasured her privacy.  It is that quality which most keenly separates her from today’s starlets, as she felt a great dignity about keeping her passions, friendships, and family to herself, and it is precisely that dignity which is, perhaps, the most outstanding of her superlatives.

Photograph by Nekisha Durrett

Monday’s performance is free, but seating is limited.  For reservations please call 202-633-8520 or email NPGPublicPrograms@si.edu.  Additional info on the performance is available here.   

Katharine Hepburn/Everett Raymond Kinstler, 1982/Oil on canvas/National Portrait Gallery; gift of Everett Raymond Kinstler/© 1982 Everett Raymond Kinstler

Curator's Journal: Wendy Wick Reaves on "Ballyhoo! Posters and Portraiture"

Why does a museum that usually exhibits art choose to exhibit posters? How do you characterize a poster anyway? Is it high culture when done by a fine artist and low culture when it reproduces a photographic face? Is it an historical document, an inexpensive decorative item, a symbol, or an ephemeral piece of commerce?

The National Portrait Gallery's new exhibition “Ballyhoo! Posters as Portraiture” has given me the opportunity to muse about these questions. But I can’t say I’ve decided on an easy way to explain the poster and its impact.

Sometimes a pictorial poster is a decorative masterpiece—something I can’t walk by without a jolt of aesthetic pleasure. Another might strike me as extremely clever advertising: you can feel the persuasive tug of words and image working in tandem. Occasionally, a poster is more like a punch in the stomach that takes you aback and makes you think. Posters can also be collectible icons for your wall, promoting your favorite cause or rock band. Indeed, there is no one tidy category for these pieces. But collectively, these “pictures of persuasion,” as we might call them, offer a wealth of art, history, design, and popular culture for us to understand.

The poster is a familiar part of our world, and we intuitively understand its role as propaganda, promotion, announcement, or advertisement. But in this exhibition, we’ve added another set of questions to ponder. How can we think about the poster as a form of popular portraiture? So often a poster does feature a famous face. And when it does, it is conveying information about that individual, while at the same time announcing the arrival of a circus, hawking a product, building wartime morale, or promoting a movie or political movement. What are those messages about the celebrity figure? Does the poster reinforce his or her public image? Undermine it? Subtly transform it? How does each poster express a specific moment in the life of the person depicted?

In my role as a curator at the National Portrait Gallery, I have enjoyed the opportunity to collect these posters as portraits of prominent Americans. They are bold and fun; each one, in my view, captures a moment of history and tells a story about its famous subject.

I find that I am always learning something new about the subtle complexities of this popular art form. It isn’t enough to learn the history of poster art. One must weave in the history of celebrity promotion and the history of advertising. Only then can we really understand the poster and ask the biographical questions.

I hope, when you visit our exhibition—in the museum or on the Web site—that you’ll share my attraction to these images as art, history, and portraiture.

- Wendy Wick Reaves

Poster Calendar 1897/Edward Penfield, self-portrait, 1896/Color lithograph/National Portrait Gallery

Bette Midler/ Richard Amsel, 1973/Color photolithographic poster/National Portrait Gallery; gift of Jack Rennert/© Richard Amsel

Gossip from Paris, 1780: John Paul Jones

John Paul Jones, acclaimed in Paris after his spectacular victory in the August 23, 1779, ship-to-ship duel between the Bonhomme Richard and the British ship Serapis, was, detailed an Englishwoman on the scene, “greatly admired here especially by the ladies who are wild with love for him, but he adores Lady_____.” The lady in question was the twenty-six-year-old Comtesse de Lowendahl, the wife of a French brigadier general, who was “possessed of youth, beauty and wit, and every other female accomplishment.” The Comtesse was fond of music and poetry and painting miniatures of her friends: “She drew his picture (a striking likeness) . . . and presented it to him.” (shown above)

 

Called to L’Orient to look after his ship, Jones wrote to the Comtesse that “nothing short of . . .duty to the glorious cause of freedom,” could have induced him to leave “while my heart urged me to stay.” He declared, “You have made me in love with my own picture because you have condescended to draw it.” Enclosing a lock of his hair, he proclaimed, “If I could send you my heart itself or anything else that could afford you pleasure it would be my happiness to do it.” He promised to send a cipher “for a key to our future correspondence so you will be able to write me very freely and without risk.”

 

The Comtesse, who apparently had entered into a flirtation with the thought that Jones might help her husband secure a command in the Continental army, abruptly drew back and told him, “I am touched by the feeling you have for me, and I would have liked to be able to answer them, but I could not do so without deceiving a gentleman with whom I live, and I am incapable of doing that.”

Jones, “the most agreeable sea-wolf one could wish to meet with,” was left with only his miniature to remember her by.  

 

John Paul Jones, 1747-1792 / Comtesse de Lowendahl (1775-1839) / Watercolor on ivory, 1780 / National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, conserved with funds from the Smithsonian Women's Committee