Gainsborough’s letters

Once again, Barrie Sheppard gives us a greater insight into Gainsborough’s creative abilities. Barrie writes: Famous for his talent with paint brush and pencil, Thomas Gainsborough also had considerable skill with the pen, a skill revealed in many of his letters, particularly those to his friend, the actor David Garrick – letters  that are tinged with touches that are, I suggest, reminiscent of Shakespeare. We can imagine, for example, Falstaff in a London tavern boasting to his Prince Hal that the haunts of low-life London prostitutes were his:

But the line is Gainsborough’s, written in a letter to actor David Garrick’s young protégé, John Henderson, warning the young man about the perils of prostitution, the above words establishing his credentials for giving such advice:

 A natural feel for metaphor and simile is there in the language: the metaphor “school” for his experience with the prostitutes; then its easy extension into his being “deeply read” for the extent of his knowledge; and on to the detail of his “learning” evoked in the image of female undergarments, the “petticoats”. And all said in just twelve words!  

In a letter to Garrick apologising for not completing the portrait of his actor friend, he adds, at its close, a paragraph expressing his sorrow at the news of the death of the renowned comic actor, Hannah Richard. The paragraph ends with:

Time, personified, has us in its “fobb”, its pocket, an image for the impending grave into which it will dispatch us – “fobbing” us off from life, as it were. “Watch” is also a pun (Shakespeare was a prolific punster), referring both back to “timekeeper” and to “keeping watch” – looking out for what Time has in store for us.

In a letter written to his friend William Jackson, the cleric, composer and organist at the Exeter Cathedral, he “discourses” on the place of ornamentation in portraiture, differentiating it from its role in the Grand Style:

Rich in imagery and lively in rhythm, he elaborates meaning in analogies that are arresting without being self-conscious.  “Trifling” ornament in a portrait in the grand style would be as inappropriate as “flourishes in a Psalm Tune”. On the other hand, “lively touches” in portraiture make the “Heart dance”; and without such touches, the heart is quietened as if in a Church.

In another letter, again to Garrick, he writes of the close likeness that the young actor John Henderson has to Garrick:

Portrait is his central metaphor. Two portraits, one of Garrick and one of Henderson, are remarkably alike. Garrick’s, however, is perfect, whereas Henderson’s lacks finish – it is as a “misty”, “fuzzy” image seen through glass – a second metaphor that echoes St Paul’s: “For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.”.

It is impossible, says Gainsborough, to add the finish needed to make the two portraits identical – to “touch Henderson’s features, clean his Person, & sharpen him into the real Garrick”, for that would make Henderson and Garrick identical, and of all the “Geniuses” that have been “hung” (exhibited), none is the equal of Garrick. Unlike St Pauls’ observation, there will be no meeting of  “face to face” identity. Then, in acknowledging the pleasure Garrick must take in his up-and-coming protégé, he closes with a simile drawn from the world of horse racing,

In another letter, he alludes to the horse-riding he loved with the word “hobble”, to express the difference between Garrick in life and his portrait of him – his “copy”,

Mary Gibbons, Gainsborough’s sister, was, at the age of 53, still running a boarding house in Bath. Commenting on this, he wrote:

How blunt and insensitive would have been a literal rendering of this, such as this:

In another letter to Garrick he writes about “gaudy” colour and “brash” sound:

On the face of it, this seems more appropriate to be said of himself as a portraitist (the press had claimed at the time that his colours were too “glowing”). Or, it may in fact be addressed to Garrick, light, colour and sound being metaphors for his acting. But whatever, the words sparkle with vivid colour and variety.

Seriously ill with cancer, and just three months from death, Gainsborough wrote of “hope” as “the Pallat of Colours we all paint with in sickness”, and of the childhood memories he was constantly recalling:

Thank you, Barrie, for highlighting another of Gainsborough’s talents.