Before the Musée d'Orsay in Paris organized its exhibition "John Singer Sargent: Dazzling Paris" (running until January 11, 2026), another event had already honored the American painter. The "Sargent and Fashion" exhibition in London in 2024 allowed visitors to rediscover the work of this clothing enthusiast. Fashion historian Serena Dyer had chronicled it for The Conversation UK, providing insights into how the renowned artist's mastery extended far beyond traditional portraiture.
As a fashion historian, Dyer explains that she always leaves museums with her camera saturated with images of clothing rather than faces. She remains fascinated by how a painter manages to capture the changing reflections of rustling silk or the dancing light on sparkling jewelry. However, in the world of art criticism, fashion in painting often remains scorned and undervalued.
The "Sargent and Fashion" exhibition at Tate Britain in 2024 faced criticism for its "canvases cluttered with old clothes" or its "torrent of sentimentality." These judgments reveal persistent prejudices: fashion would be frivolous, secondary, unworthy of a true artistic subject. This exhibition, co-produced by the Tate and the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, sought to correct this outdated and reductive vision.
Sargent would not be Sargent without his intimate relationship with fashion. The exhibition invites visitors to consider that his virtuosity with the brush went hand in hand with a true mastery of fabrics, needles, and pins. The elegant Victorian women he painted had indeed understood the power their clothing gave them. In 1878, writer Margaret Oliphant already noted: "There now exists a class of women who dress according to paintings, and who, when buying a dress, ask: 'Will this paint well?'"
Art and fashion were intimately linked at the time, and the modernity, dynamism, and cultural relevance of fashion are expressed in every brushstroke of John Singer Sargent (1856-1925). From the first room, visitors get the impression of entering a fashionable salon. They are greeted by the portrait of Aline de Rothschild, Lady Sassoon (1907). Draped in a spectacular fantasy of black taffeta, her face emerges from a whirlwind of shadow, radiating under the dark velvet of her opera cape.
Dyer admits that even as a fashion historian who chooses her outfits carefully, she couldn't help but feel terribly underdressed in the face of such brilliance. But perhaps this is because she doesn't have a John Singer Sargent as an artistic director. The exhibition shows him as much a painter as a stylist. He wielded brushes, certainly, but also pins, molding fabrics around his models to create dizzying forms.
The curators compare him to a photo shoot art director: his portraits don't reproduce the fashion of his time, they construct his own aesthetic vision. Lady Sassoon's cape, displayed nearby, is proof of this. Dating from 1895, it predates the painting by a decade. In his hands, this old garment becomes, through a clever play of draping and pins, a striking image of modernity.
Throughout the exhibition, the paintings dialogue with period caricatures mocking fashion, photographs of the models in their daily lives, and textile pieces and accessories that served in the composition of the works. However, while John Singer Sargent's role as painter and stylist is omnipresent, that of the creators of these garments – often modest women – remains in the shadows.
Apart from a short panel devoted to Charles Frederick Worth, an overrated figure in 19th-century couture, few tributes are paid to the hands that cut, pinned, and sewed these marvels. Most of the exhibited pieces bear the mention "unknown creator." One of these creators is however highlighted: Adele Meyer, whose portrait Sargent painted in 1896. An elegant woman and activist, Meyer was also a defender of garment workers' rights.
With Clementina Black, she published in 1909 "Makers of our Clothes: A Case for Trade Boards," a pioneering investigation into working conditions in sewing workshops. The book is displayed next to the painting, somewhat eclipsed by the radiance of the portrait. This staging reminds – more than it denounces – how much the beauty of fashion has often made invisible the labor of those who produce it.
The exhibition also subtly questions power relations. In art books and exhibition catalogs, John Singer Sargent's models are most often designated by their husband's name. Mary Louisa Cushing becomes "Mrs. Edward Darley Boit," Mathilde Seligman becomes "Mrs. Leopold Hirsch." Following Victorian etiquette, these women lose their own identity to exist only through that of their spouse.
The curators have taken the seemingly subversive but actually legitimate approach of associating each official title with the model's maiden name. It's a discreet detail, probably imperceptible to the majority of visitors, but essential for restoring individuality to these women.
Ultimately, this exhibition doesn't revolutionize fashion history, but it moves in the right direction. The opportunity to see or revisit the famous portrait of Madame X, which represents socialite Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau in her black dress – a painting that caused scandal at the time – certainly attracted crowds. But the exhibition above all reminds us of a subtle truth: if Sargent managed to become a great painter, it's because he was first an immense stylist.
