In which we revisit the adamancy for Ingrès

The other day, relishing a study of one of the more consequential figures of the 19th Century, we read how the subject had been adamant for Ingrès as her portraitist, and were plunged immediately into reflection on how little things have changed. Do we have a fair historiography of the persistence of this passion? If so, we should like to do our part to augment its evidence. However little it may resemble it, the adoption of a favoured ensemble is probably nothing other than this conscious-ness, made prosaic by its pervasiveness.

We marvel, that until this obsession with the portraitist of opulence had been reduced to such a musical phrase, it had been possible to dismiss its manifestation as the mere pursuit of laundry day. And yet, what we observe is the insistence on the presentation of our choice. We have learned, now, that that delicious combat of blue and rose, so central to the Ingrès we have, is an underlying stipulation of an idée-fixe of self-projection inspired by the canvas, itself.

Again we find ourselves leveraged to a higher comprehension by a felicitous turn of phrase. What a gentle turning back, we all now feel, of conceits of prior conception. And yet, in our common moulding by a zealotry for art, which it took a Rothschild - twice affirmed - to exhibit to the mind, is there not some encouragement to all to step forth, and acknowledge Ingrès?

But lest it then be said, hampered by distraction in the house colours, we had not reached home before dark with this exegesis, we allude to that condition in fairest monochrome, and keep a flacon of some salts to stir a hasty judgment's sense. The same breeze stirs all the linen on the line.