Small and challenging to display, portrait miniatures are more likely to be overlooked by visitors than grand oil paintings or imposing sculptures. Yet, unlike large-scale works of art, nearly all of us can relate to the portrait miniature - the appeal to carry a picture of someone close to us. Take a look at your mobile phone background…you may have a photograph of a spouse, child, parent, friends, a pet. Before the age of photography, the equivalent was the portrait miniature.

Compton Verney’s new exhibition, ‘The Reflected Self: Portrait Miniatures 1540-1850’, co-curated by Emma Rutherford of The Limner Company, tells the history of the portrait miniature with this continuity in mind. From a remarkable pair of portrait miniatures that would have been held by Queen Elizabeth I herself, to the daguerreotype and today’s ‘selfie’, the exhibition examines the function of portrait miniatures and this most personal form of portraiture.


Installation view of The Reflected Self: Portrait Miniatures 1540-1850 © Compton Verney, photo by Jamie Woodley

The portrait miniature has its origins in illuminated manuscripts. The term ‘miniature’ did not originally refer to the size, but derives from the Latin word miniare - the red lead paint used by manuscript illuminators. Rulers might have their image incorporated in a manuscript, representing their authority in the same way as a wax seal.

It was during the early 16th century that small-scale portraits came to function apart from the manuscript, used in diplomacy and marriage negotiations. While a diplomatic portrait might sound lofty, the intention was personal: a miniature held in one’s hand creates a connection more readily than a stately portrait hung on the wall – attested by the account of Queen Elizabeth I kissing a miniature of Mary, Queen of Scots in the presence of the Scottish ambassador.

Miniatures could also inspire devotion of another kind. The giving of one’s portrait quickly became part of the courtship ritual that would last for centuries. Elizabethan miniatures epitomise the romantic and chivalric culture of the age, the sitters often appear distinctly flirtatious or forlorn, and some contain messages in cryptic imagery or poetic phrases that dance around the border in golden calligraphy.

Whether they depicted a monarch or a loved one, miniatures were intended to be kept on one’s person all the time. Small and often housed in a locket of some kind, they were portable and robust enough to be worn on the body. The recipient’s relationship with the sitter would determine whether the miniature was worn openly or concealed. The black string necklaces commonly worn by women in the Elizabeth and Jacobean periods would often have a love-token such as a miniature attached, hidden in their décolletage beneath the wearer’s bodice. The intimacy of this gesture need not be explained.




Fig. 1. Nicholas Hilliard (c.1547-1619), Elizabeth I (1533-1603) and Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester (1532-88), c.1575, watercolour on vellum [Private Collection, recently sold by The Limner Company] – currently exhibited in The Reflected Self: Portrait Miniatures 1540-1850

An extraordinary example of this romantic type of miniature is included in the Compton Verney exhibition, which would have once been amongst Queen Elizabeth I’s most personal possessions. A tiny, thumbnail-sized pair of miniatures by Nicholas Hilliard (c.1547-1619) [figure 1], depicting the queen and her ‘favourite’, Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester (1532-88). They would likely have been housed together in a locket, which, when closed, would place the portraits face to face. This intimate gift demonstrates the sitters’ close relationship as well as Dudley’s audacity in seeking to position himself as a suitor for the queen.

Aside from affairs of the heart, one might wish to conceal a miniature that conveyed dangerous political beliefs. Examples in the exhibition from the mid-to-late 17th century depict many of the leading protagonists of the English Civil War, Restoration and Glorious Revolution, and would have been used to reward or inspire loyalty and demonstrate allegiance. The production of miniatures of ordinary folk also proliferated during the turbulence of this period, as loved ones were separated by war.


Fig. 2. Samuel Cooper (1607/8-72), Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658), 1657, Watercolour on vellum [Compton Verney Collection] – currently exhibited in The Reflected Self
Installation view of The Reflected Self. Both images © Compton Verney, photo Jamie Woodley

Whatever the nature of the commission, all miniatures were intended to reflect the true self. For the Puritan Oliver Cromwell, flattery was out of the question and it is from his instruction to the miniaturist Samuel Cooper (1607/8-1672) that the phrase ‘warts and all’ derives, although what Cromwell actually said was “pimples, warts and everything as you see me”.

Cooper’s portraits of Cromwell are considered among the best portraits ever produced in England, and a superb example from the Compton Verney Collection is included in the exhibition [figure 2]. Complete with warts and thinning hair, the miniature is displayed alongside a Civil War-era armour breastplate comparable to the one worn by Cromwell.

Costume plays a significant role in the exhibition as it does within the art form. From the genesis of portrait miniature painting, through to its eclipse in the age of photography, artists paid close attention to sitters’ dress. Miniaturists would paint portraits in the presence of the sitter, and not from a pattern or other source as was often the case with oil paintings. Even Elizabeth I sat to Hilliard, one of few accounts of her sitting for an artist. Gowns and jewels were made available to the artist to ensure accuracy – it could be important to sitters to convey their fashionable taste and/or showcase their wealth in their material splendour. 

It was not uncommon for miniatures to show sitters in a state of undress either. An iconic Elizabethan image is the Victoria & Albert Museum’s portrait miniature by Hilliard of an unknown man among flames. It is a rare depiction of an Elizabethan gentleman wearing just his undershirt, open at the collar, revealing a great deal more skin that most male portraits of the age.


Fig. 3. Peter Oliver (1594-1648), Venetia Digby (née Stanley), Lady Digby (1600-33), c.1615-20, watercolour and bodycolour on vellum [Private Collection, recently sold by The Limner Company] – currently exhibited in The Reflected Self

Something as innocuous to the 21st-century viewer as a woman wearing her hair down was considered risqué if the woman was married. An example in the Compton Verney exhibition shows renowned Jacobean beauty, Venetia Digby (née Stanley) (1600-33) with her hair thus [figure 3], and it may have been exchanged as part of her betrothal. She also wears a rarely-seen yellow (saffron-dyed) ruff, an example of the fleeting fashions captured in miniature that were rarely included in other forms of portraiture.  

More revealing still are the Elizabethan and Jacobean miniatures of women in masque costumes, sometimes with their breasts completely exposed. The dangerously low-cut bodice, loose hair and flower crown worn by Lady Dorothy Sidney (née Percy), Countess of Leicester (c.1598-1659) [figure 4] suggest her outfit was inspired by masque costume. The (later) frame of this portrait is glazed on the reverse to show the playing card was used as a support by the artist. Playing cards were used to reinforce the vellum onto which the portrait was painted at this early period. The choice of playing card used may be significant as part of a wider symbolic culture surrounding cards at this date.



Fig. 4. Isaac Oliver (c.1565-1617), Lady Dorothy Sidney (née Percy), Countess of Leicester (c.1598-1659), c.1615, watercolour on vellum [Private Collection, recently sold by The Limner Company] – currently exhibited in The Reflected Self

Perhaps the most shocking fashion to be seen in the exhibition are the two portraits by John Smart (1741-1811) of gentlemen with pink hair - both wear wigs coloured by hair powder [figure 5]. Wigs began to be powdered white at the beginning of the 18th century, but coloured powders, in pink, blue and lilac, were a short-lived craze of the 1770s-80s. As such, and likely considered too informal for other forms of portraiture, coloured hair powder is near exclusively seen in portrait miniatures and fashion prints. Smart’s oeuvre depicts more pink-haired sitters than any other artist [see figure 6 for another example] and it may be that he had a particular interest in hairstyles owing to his father’s profession as a peruke (wig) maker. His work is forensic in detail and another portrait in the exhibition shows the sitter with a dusting of hair powder having fallen onto his collar and shoulders [figure 7].


[Left] Fig. 5. John Smart (1741-1811), Unidentified Gentleman, probably of the Parker family, 1772, watercolour on ivory [Compton Verney Collection] – currently exhibited in The Reflected Self © Compton Verney, photo Jamie Woodley
[Centre] Fig. 6. John Smart (1741-1811), A Lady, 1785 [previously sold by The Limner Company]
[Right] Fig. 7. John Smart (1741-1811), Unidentified Gentleman with hair powder on his collar, 1783, watercolour on ivory [Compton Verney Collection] – currently exhibited in The Reflected Self © Compton Verney, photo Jamie Woodley

The heyday of the portrait miniature is considered to be this late Georgian period, when they had become almost ubiquitous among the burgeoning middle classes. The war in Europe and America, as well as increasing trade in far-flung climes and the popularity of the Grand Tour, saw great demand for miniature portraits of men in uniform and ‘coming of age’ portraits of young men. Infant mortality was also high and it was common practice to commission portrait miniatures of very young children.

The commemorative aspect of these miniatures was taken a step further with the inclusion of real human hair in miniatures’ frames. Usually seen in a glazed panel on the reverse of the frame [figure 8], sometimes surrounding the portrait itself [figure 9], or even braided into a bracelet or necklace to which the miniature was attached, the hair gave miniatures a relic-like quality. At a time when most people wore wigs or hair powder in public, including a lock of the sitter’s hair - revealing their natural hair colour - was an especially intimate gesture. Indeed, an etiquette developed around the practice of gifting hair.



Fig. 8. George Engleheart (1750-1829) Miss Sarah Shergold, 1795, the reverse with locks of hair tied with split pearls and gold wire on opalescent glass [for sale with The Limner Company] 


Fig. 9. [Left] Richard Cosway RA (1742-1821) and [right] John Smart (1741-1811) (possibly after Christian Friedrich Zincke, c.1683-1767), a double-sided portrait miniature of Two Unidentified Gentleman, c.1775, watercolour on ivory, the frame with plaited hair surround [Compton Verney Collection] – currently exhibited in The Reflected Self © Compton Verney, photo Jamie Woodley

The relationship between the recipient of the miniature and the sitter might also be one of friendship. Women were the primary wearers of miniatures and popular female accessories such as a lace-making shuttles and carnets-de-bal (dance card holders) [see figure 10] came to incorporate miniature portraits too. In this way miniatures could be used as part of a person’s social capital, advertising a connection to a certain individual.


Fig. 10. French School, Portrait miniature of a Lady set into a carnet-de-bal, c.1785, watercolour on ivory and vari-coloured gold and painted papier-mache [previously sold by The Limner Company]

In short, the study of portrait miniatures could be likened to browsing through historical social media. The ephemeral nature of the images enabled them to capture things that were not considered appropriate for other forms of portraiture intended for posterity. This aspect of the portrait miniature and their their highly personal nature, make them the most compelling form of portraiture and more than worthy of the spotlight shone on them in this exhibition.

Portrait miniatures can be a valuable source to the field of fashion history. Sitters are often depicted wearing more quotidian dress than that worn for larger oil portraits, and represent a slightly broader cross-section of society. While I am not a fashion historian, the portrait miniature was in its heyday when revolution erupted in France at the end of the eighteenth century, and French and British miniatures from the period clearly reflect the significant changes in fashion and culture that took place.

Men’s dress in the mid-to-late eighteenth-century portraits consisted (broadly speaking) of knee-breeches with stockings, a coat, waistcoat, shirt with frilled jabot, stock, and a curled, powdered wig. The degree of decoration and luxuriousness of fabric generally increased the higher up the social scale. Earlier in the century, the preference (especially in France) was for colour and pattern, and as much embroidery and silk as you could afford – see figures 1 and 2 for a British and French example.


Fig. 1 [left] JOHN SMART (1741-1811) Portrait miniature of Sir Rowland Winn, 5th Bt (1739-1785), Bt., wearing a pink silk frock coat with lilac lining trimmed with gold, a blue waistcoat embroidered with gold and a black silk solitaire ribbon tied at the back of his powdered wig; dated 1767 – previously sold by The Limner Company
Fig. 2 [right] JEAN DANIEL WELPER (1729-1780) Portrait miniature of Louis, duc de Bourgogne, dauphin of France (1729–1765), wearing brown coat with gold brocade, blue sash and red ribbon of the Saint-Esprit; circa 1760 – for sale with The Limner Company

In England, the fashion was beginning to turn towards more sober colours and utilitarian fabrics, inspired by outdoor pursuits. In figures 3 and 4, the sitters wear darker coloured coats, offset by brightly decorated waistcoats. Eye-catching waistcoats became a mainstay in men’s fashion in the 1780s - the last vestige of florid styles from earlier in the century - which stood as a focal point against the new, plainer coats and breeches. Stripes were a particularly popular pattern, especially in France where Louis-Sébastien Mercier wrote in his Tableau de Paris (1787) that the king’s zebra was a source of inspiration: ‘coats and waistcoats imitate the handsome creature’s markings as closely as they can.’[2]


Fig. 3 [left] JOHN SMART (1742-1811) Portrait miniature of a Gentleman, believed to be Chevalier de Luetch, wearing a blue coat, a richly decorated ochre waistcoat with scarlet lining and edging, white stock and frilled lace cravat; 1764 – for sale with The Limner Company
Fig. 4 [right] Attributed to THOMAS DAY (c.1732-1807?) Portrait miniature of a Gentleman wearing a brown coat, a pink and white striped waistcoat, frilled cravat, his hair worn en queue; circa 1780 – for sale with The Limner Company 

In May 1789, the Estates-General was summoned for the first time in 150 years. It was to be one of the most significant events leading to the Revolution and dress played an important role.[3] The assembly consisted of representatives from the three estates (social classes), and each was expected to dress according to specific rules for their estate. The dress regulations harked back to archaic sumptuary laws that had long since been abolished and sparked anger. The Clergy, the First Estate, wore ‘ecclesiastical robes, some scarlet with ornate lace’. The aristocracy, the Second Estate, ‘were entitled to wear suits of black silk decorate with gold braid, white stockings, feathered hats and swords’. The Third Estate, which represented the other 97% of the population, where required to wear ‘suits of plain black cloth, cravats made of muslin instead of lace, and black stockings’.

Violent revolution broke out in July the same year and almost from the outset, revolutionaries could be recognised by their dress: the earliest and most widely-worn sign of support was a rosette made of ribbon in the colours blue, white and red, known was the revolutionary cockade.[4][5] (Indeed, it became dangerous not to wear one as it was decreed that anyone without a cockade should be deemed a counter-revolutionary.) This combination of colours, the tricolore, came to be adopted across fashion by some in a show of patriotism. A study of French portrait miniatures from the period (for example those in the Tansey Miniatures Collection), shows numerous men’s and women’s outfits seemingly assembled to incorporate the tricolore.

Factions at both ends of the political scale came to be defined by their manner of dress: the revolutionary sansculottes (those ‘without breeches’), and the dandyish, counter-revolutionary muscadins (the ‘perfumed ones’). The militant revolutionaries, the sansculottes, earned their name by doing away with the breeches (culottes) of the Ancien Régime in favour of long-trousers (pantalons) in the style of sailors. As well as long trousers, the sansculottes often wore a carmagnole[6], a short, boxy jacket worn by peasants and named after the north-west Italian town of Carmagnola. They wore sabots, a type of wooden clog or heavy leather shoe with a wood sole which was considered a work shoe associated with the lower classes in France, the Netherlands, Belgium and Italy in the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries. Revolutionaries also adopted more symbolic elements of clothing such as the bonnet rouge derived from the Phrygian cap or red cap of liberty, the felt cap worn by emancipated slaves of ancient Rome and an attribute of Libertas, the Roman goddess of liberty.


Fig. 5 JEAN-MARIE RIBOU (1744–1817) Portrait miniature of a Gentleman with headscarf with white, red and blue pattern; c.1793 – Tansey Miniatures Collection Versailles

The sitter depicted in figure 5 may be wearing a headscarf emulating the Phrygian cap and likely a revolutionary. He also appears slightly unkempt, a style that was deliberately used by some to demonstrate a departure from the highly groomed court style of the Ancien Régime. This portrait also demonstrates how wigs and hair powder were rejected in favour of natural hair.  While wigs and powdered hair were not the preserve of aristocrats (Robespierre wore a powdered wig), they were associated with the trappings of the Ancien Régime (see figures 2 and 6) and many revolutionaries preferred to wear their hair naturally; hence both gradually went out of fashion. Not only was natural hair considered more democratic, it echoed what was happening in England[7], where a tax on hair powder was introduced in 1795.


Fig. 6 JEAN-URBAIN GUÉRIN (1760-1836) Portrait miniature of George-Fréderic Bapst (1756-1826), crown jeweller, en buste, in profile to the left, in coat, waistcoat and frilled cravat, powdered hair en queue, painted in brown camaïeu heightened with white on a dark-blue ground; circa 1785 – for sale with The Limner Company

At the other end of both the political and sartorial spectrum were the Incroyables, and their female counterparts the Merveilleuses. They belonged to a royalist movement that emerged with the Thermidorean Reaction. Many were from aristocratic or wealthy backgrounds and their appearance signified their allegiance to the Ancient Régime: breeches, green jackets or waistcoats (green was a colour associated with the late king’s brother), tricorn hats, swords, silks and embroideries.

What made them quite so ‘incredible’ was the extremity of their look - think punk-dandy: stocks or cravats wound so high that they covered their entire neck, chin and jaw, oversized monocles, large hoop earrings, walking canes. The Incroyables wore their hair à la chien: the back and top cut short and the sides worn long (often shoulder-length) falling over their ears. Some shaved the back altogether or combed it up and fastened it with a comb to imitate the hairstyles of those condemned to the guillotine, others braided their hair. Figure 7 shows a gentleman wearing the high stock or cravat, braided hair and hoop earrings associated with the Incroyables.



Fig. 7 UNKNOWN Portrait in Profile of a Young Man, n.d. Watercolor on ivory portrait in metal locket with glass lenses, Image (sight): 2 x 2 in. (5.1 x 5.1 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Museum Collection Fund, 25.905 (Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 25.905_bw_SL1.jpg)

Perhaps the most bizarre of their affectations was the hunched posture, which some tailors catered for with special coats pleated to enhance the effect. They frequently affected a lisp, which historians variously claim was to avoid the letter ‘R’ for Revolution, or because a ‘posh’ French accent skipped over the sound.

Mainstream men’s fashion adapted gradually towards a more practical and less ostentatious style. The changes are quite apparent when we compare portrait miniatures of the early nineteenth century, such as the examples of figures 8 and 9, to figures 1-7.


Fig. 8 JEAN-BAPTISTE JACQUES AUGUSTIN (1759-1832) Portrait miniature of Anne-Ferdinand-Louis de Berthier, Comte de Sauvigny (1782-1864), wearing blue coat with brass buttons, ochre waistcoat and white stock; 1805 – recently sold by The Limner Company

Interestingly the above sitter, Comte de Sauvigny, was a member of the les Ultraroyalistes, a political movement said to be ‘more royalist than the king’, yet his attire shows the lasting influence of the revolution on fashion and culture. Embroidery and embellishment of any kind had been more or less left behind in men’s fashion by the turn of the century, in favour of a more sober colours and a utilitarian fit - perhaps epitomised in the frock coat. The frock coat was an understated garment, usually blue or neutral in colour, made from woollen cloth or linen and derived from working dress. It had been adopted by English gentlemen as it was practical for country pursuits. Anna Reynolds describes the French version: ‘known as a frac, was more decorative and tight-fitting, often made of silk’.[8] Both these gentlemen appear to be wearing a version of the frac or frock coat as well as tied cravats, also perhaps in the English style.[9]


Fig. 9 JEAN FRANCOIS HUET VILLIERS (1772-1813) Portrait miniature of a Gentleman, c.1805 – for sale with The Limner Company

Both sitters’ natural, unpowdered hair is worn in a short crop in a tousled style à la Titus. This classically-inspired look was part of a larger interest in classicism, brought about by the Revolution which idealised the political ‘democracies’ of antiquity, and later by Napoleon’s occupation of Naples and the excavations of ancient ruins. This classical interest is also reflected in the circular format of figure 8, which emulated ancient Roman portraits, and became popular in French miniature painting.

Fashion historians note that styles had been beginning to turn plainer in the 1780s, but that the events of the revolution accelerated these changes. Fashion certainly gained an unprecedented political charge and even became dangerous, with those dressing in Ancien Régime style of clothing at risk of being deemed counter-revolutionary. It’s also interesting to observe the influence of English sporting clothing at this time. Perhaps in search of less ostentatious modes of dress, the French found the inspiration they were looking for in this English style.

Simplicity had arrived with force, and, although quality of tailoring and fabric was still of the utmost importance, men’s fashion would continue on a sombre trajectory throughout the nineteenth century.

[1] Honoré de Balzac, taken from Lévy, C. (ed.), Oeuvres completes de H. de Balzac (Paris), 1869-76, xx (1870), p.492, as quoted in Reynolds, R., Style and Society: Dressing the Georgians (Royal Collection Trust), 2023, p.316

[2] Ribeiro, A., Dress in Eighteenth-Century Europe, 1715-1789 (Yale University Press, New Haven & London), revised edition 2002, p. 208

[3] Reynolds, A., Style & Society: Dressing the Georgians (Royal Collection Trust), 2023, p.315. All the quotations in this paragraph are taken from this source.

[4] Surviving examples, along with other garments from the period can be viewed online here: https://unframed.lacma.org/2016/08/03/french-revolutionary-fashion 

[5] Blue and red were the traditional Parisian colours, and white was added (the colour of the Bourbons) initially to indicate loyalty to the sovereign, thereby making the colour combination a national symbol. Later, this trio of colours assumed additional symbolism including representing the three estates and the revolutionary ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity.

[6] ‘La Carmagnole’ is also the title of a French Revolutionary song and dance.

[7] Fashions travelled in both directions across the channel at this time. For example: the redingote (‘riding coat’ with a French accent) and the robe a l’anglaise.  

[8] Reynolds, p.122

[9] See Reynolds. p.112.

The Limner Company recently celebrated its first anniversary, and it’s with great pleasure that we can announce some notable sales from our first year.

Last Spring, Emma Rutherford identified the sitter of the portrait miniature by John Smart (1741-1811) pictured below as Sir Rowland Winn, 5th baronet of Nostell (1739-1785) - the discovery story was documented in the blog, ‘Finding Sir Rowland’. Research into the sitter revealed that he was largely responsible for ‘one of the great treasure houses of the north of England’, Nostell Priory in Yorkshire (now National Trust). Having inherited Nostell in 1765, Sir Rowland and his wife, Swiss heiress Sabine d'Hervart, picked up the project with vigour, employing not only the most fashionable architect Robert Adam, but leading craftsmen such as Thomas Chippendale and Joseph Rose. It’s therefore fitting that the miniature has now returned to Nostell, nestled among the many other Georgian treasures.


Left: Portrait miniature of Sir Rowland Winn, 5th Bt (1739-1785), dated 1767, John Smart (1741-1811) - sold by The Limner Company to the National Trust in 2023. Centre: Nostell Priory and Parkland, West Yorkshire. Right: Detail of the Top Hall at Nostell Priory and Parkland, West Yorkshire. | © National Trust Images/Chris Lacey.

Another intriguing discovery came about last autumn, when Emma identified a lost portrait from a series in the Royal Collection. This endearing drawing [pictured below top left] depicts Frederick William Blomberg, D.D. (1761-1847), who was adopted by Queen Charlotte in 1765. The portrait was sold at auction with the artist unknown, but Emma’s research revealed it to be one of a set dating to June 1769 by Hugh Douglas Hamilton (1739-1808), said to have been commissioned by George III. The six other portraits from the series depict the King and Queen and their four sons: George, Prince of Wales; Frederick, Duke of York; William, Duke of Clarence and Edward Duke of Kent.


Top left: The Reverend Frederick William Blomberg, D.D. (1761-1847), as a child; dated 1769; Hugh Douglas Hamilton (1739-1808) - sold by The Limner Company to the Royal Collection Trust in 2023. Top centre, top right and bottom row, left to right: William, Duke of Clarence (1765-1837); Edward, Duke of Kent (1767-1820); Frederick, Duke of York (1763-1827); George, Prince of Wales (1762-1830); George III (1738-1820); by Hugh Douglas Hamilton (1739-1808) - Royal Collection Trust.

Quite aside from the exciting discovery, Blomberg’s mysterious life story deserved a dedicated blog post, ‘A Cuckoo in the Royal Nest; who was Frederick William Blomberg?’. Whether Blomberg was an orphan or the illegitimate child of George III, he was raised in the royal nurseries alongside the future King George IV (1762-1830). Perhaps indicative of Blomberg’s position, his portrait seems to have been kept by the sitter while the rest remained in the Royal Collection - until late last year that is, when it returned back into the royal fold after being acquired by the Royal Collection Trust.


Portrait drawing of an unknown Gentleman, possibly Michael Rosse (d.c. 1735); circa 1675; Richard Gibson (c.1605-1690) - recently acquired by a public institution.

Most recently, this drawing was offered by The Limner Company at London Art Week 2024, where it was acquired by another public institution (to be announced in due course). Thought to depict the artist, Richard Gibson’s (c.1605-1690) son in law, Michael Rosse (d.c.1735), and husband to the artist Susannah-Penelope Rosse (née Gibson) (c.1655-1700), it survived in group of personal drawings depicting close friends and members of the family. The group of drawings indicates the devoted and interconnected relationships of artists living and working in the same sphere.

Hair is certainly not something that has been overlooked in art history. Artists themselves have been obsessed by it- and many of the best-known portraits in art history feature magnificent heads of hair. Think Albrecht Durer’s Self-Portrait from 1500 [1], Sandro Botticelli’s Venus [2], and John Everett Millais’ Bridesmaid [3]. Not only is the hair a focus in these paintings but also in the processes that artists go through to create them- Dürer was said to use specific types of hair on his brushes to paint such fine strands of hair as he did, and even curled his own locks- possibly the reason that the waves in his self-portrait are so convincing.

Working with portrait miniatures, which have to concentrate so much detail into such a small space anyway, it often strikes one that hair forms a large portion of the art that we are looking at. For a sitter with a particularly large hairstyle, this can take up over a third of the space. Though we appreciate it for the detail and beauty of its depiction in all of the miniatures that we talk about, it seemed to warrant its own, separate discussion. The following will open that discussion, and run through a brief history of some of the hair in the miniatures that have passed through the hands of The Limner Company.

Tudor, Elizabethan, and early Stuart hairstyles 

It was in the Tudor period that limning emerged as a separate art form, apart from manuscript illumination. Therefore, it seems to be a sensible point at which to begin looking at how trends in hairstyles were represented within these miniature portraits.

During the reign of Henry VIII, especially in known examples of miniatures from the period, hair tended to be represented in a simple way, and was often covered with a cap, or cut to a short length (for men, that is). These more toned-back styles had been largely influenced by religious beliefs. In contrast, the dawn of the Elizabethan period, and the beginning of the patronage of miniaturists like Nicholas Hilliard (1547-1619) and Isaac Oliver (1556-1617) brought with it more variation and interest in the styles that were being depicted. Their general appearance is freer, and more exciting. Take the Portrait of a Nobleman with Impresa, 1610s, by Isaac Oliver (fig.1) [4]. There are a few interesting stylistic elements to the sitter’s hair, but one of the most notable is the lock of hair that falls down onto his left shoulder. This is known as a ‘lovelock’, and was purposeful, even if it may look to us like a piece that has been missed from his haircut. To contemporaries, this piece of hair would have signalled to others that this nobleman was in a dedicated relationship. This would have looked different on different sitters, and could sometimes be plaited or, as in this example, curled. Not only does it show us a trend in hair at the time, as we are interested in here, but gives us more information about who this sitter was. He is not identified, but was certainly in a relationship.

Other examples of ‘lovelocks’ can be found in miniatures such as the portrait of an Unknown Young Man, c. 1588, by Nicholas Hilliard [5]. This miniature once belonged in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Despite being painted a few decades apart, they show some clear continuations in style. Other than the ‘lovelock’, they both sport similar moustaches and a soul patch. Fashioning facial hair in this way was common at the time, especially in the miniatures that Hilliard was painting. For other examples of this, one of the intriguing miniatures by the master limner in the V & A, A Man among Flames (1588) [6] should be referred to.

Another miniature from the early Stuart period by Hilliard tells us part of the story of women’s hair in the early seventeenth century. This is the portrait miniature of Lady Dorothy Sidney (née Percy), c.1615 (fig.2) [7]. Sidney’s hair, decorated with many flowers, cascades down her shoulders and matches the other floral decorations on her clothes. Elizabethan women, including the Queen herself, were often depicted with decorated hair. However, the free-flowing nature of this shows a shift in how exactly this could be styled. Katherine Coombs calls one of the images of Elizabeth that shows a similar hairstyle ‘unusual’ [8]. One of the main changes that should be brought to mind is the nature of the New Jacobean court in England. During his reign, James I was known for the grand performances and masques that he would hold within this court. These performances, written and directed by the great creative minds of the day like Inigo Jones, would feature members of the court dressed up and playing different characters. It has been suggested that, in this miniature, Sidney could be dressed in the guise of Flora, Roman goddess of flowers. In this period, therefore, women’s hair was on occasion being ‘dressed up’, and this is the reason that such a distinctive style appears in this particular miniature.


Fig.1: Isaac Oliver, Portrait of a Nobleman, c.1610s, watercolour on vellum (41mm high), previously with The Limner Company.
Fig.2: Nicholas Hilliard, Lady Dorothy Sidney (née Percy) (c.1598-1659), later Countess of Leicester, c.1615, Watercolour on Vellum (52mm), sold by The Limner Company.

The later Stuart period and the advent of the wig

Skipping ahead a few monarchs, one of the Limner Company’s next iconic hairstyles comes from King Charles II (1630-1685). The accession of the ‘Merry Monarch’ brought with it many depictions of his distinctive hair. A few of these miniatures have passed through the hands of The Limner Company. Currently, a depiction by Matthew Snelling (1621-1678) (fig.3) [9] provides an example of this. Charles is painted with his dark, thick and curly head of hair. This was a style that other men adopted in this period, including the gentleman painted by David des Granges (c.1611- c.1672), also with the Limner Company [10]. The fact that des Granges was able to depict this style so well is not surprising- the artist had been commissioned by Charles to produce multiple miniatures of the monarch.

Apart from its appearance, however, what Charles II had done with his hair also signified a large change in the trends of the time. Richard Corson, in his important volume on the history of hair, informs us that it was during the reign of Charles II that wigs had first appeared on the male fashion scene [11]. Before this time, they were popular in France. The King was not happy with his grey hair, and therefore a wig was essential to cover this up. Samuel Pepys (1633-1703), in his diary, on the 2nd November 1633, notes that this day was the first in which he had noticed the King greying [12]. It is likely that from this point on people were aware of him using such a wig, and would also be likely to copy this trend. An example of this happening can be found in Nicholas Dixon’s (1660-1708) Portrait of a Nobleman, c.1680 [13]. The wig that this nobleman wears is of a similar style to that in Snelling’s depiction of the King. However, it differs in that the hair is still grey. What this highlights is the fact that it was not necessarily hair colour that people were avoiding, but instead ageing in general. A wig could be made of one’s own hair, immortalised in a certain style. It is possible that this is what this nobleman had chosen to do.

Both trends of wearing a wig and using one’s own hair in it to prevent ageing contrast greatly with the trends sported by Oliver Cromwell (1599-1638) in a portrait miniature by Bernard Lens (1682-1740) (fig.4) [14]. It is widely known that the Puritan ruler was keen to have himself portrayed in a realistic way, and wearing a wig could have shown some level of excess that he was keen not to be associated with. Here, he is depicted with thin, grey, hair that is clearly receding. There is no sign of any intervention to help reduce the look of his hair ageing. Side by side, the two powerful men of the period could not look more different. Not only does this give us some information about the styles of the time, but also the political messages that could be expressed through these paintings. Here, Cromwell, in a later depiction, has been separated drastically from his enemy.



Fig. 3 [left]: Matthew Snelling, King Charles II, c.1665, watercolour on vellum (80mm high) - to be offered by The Limner Company at London Art Week 2024.
Fig. 4 [right]: Bernard Lens, Portrait of Oliver Cromwell, watercolour on vellum (28mm high) - to be offered by The Limner Company at London Art Week 2024.

Wigs and Powdered hair from the early 18th century

The wigs that became more popular in the later Stuart period did retain some of their popularity moving into the early 18th century. In fact, they were perceived to be quite valuable things. Corson quotes a newspaper article from 1717, reporting that men travelling in hackney carriages had been hit with a wave of robberies [15]. Thieves would cut a hole in the back of the carriage and take the wig straight off of the wearer’s head. Though an amusing thing to picture, it only emphasises how much of a sign of wealth these accessories could be.

Later, certain wigs would become associated with certain professions, in the same way that we would recognise a Judge’s or Barrister’s wig today. Noah Seaman’s (fl.1724-1741) Portrait of a Professional (fig.5) [16] demonstrates this. He wears a gown but is also pictured with a long, grand, white wig that could have distinguished him from other members of society at the time.

It was at the beginning of the 18th century that wigs began to be decorated with powder, too [17]. It was this development within the history of hair that provides us with some of the bright colours that we see in paintings and miniatures. Powder came in many different colours- off-white, pink, lilac, and shades of blue, and some of these colours would also be scented and have essential oils added to them. In fact, it has been suggested that these oils could naturally deter lice, and had more of a purpose than just vanity [18]. Such powder would be applied to the wigs, or straight on to natural hair, using a pair of bellows, with a mask used to protect the face from being coated.


Fig. 5: Noah Seaman, Portrait enamel of a Professional, c.1730, enamel on metal (44mm high) - The Limner Company.

The prominence of wigs for men would not last, however. Throughout the 18th century, they began to get smaller, and a focus on natural hair became more prominent. Other hair styles could still be used to demonstrate status. For example, portrait miniatures of military and naval officers, like that of Sir Thomas Pakenham (1757-1836) by Horace Hone (1754-1825) (fig.9) [19], show men wearing their hair en queue, meaning that it was tied down in the back of the head, like a braid. This may have been a practical measure, but would also become a visual distinction between these men and other members of society, just as the ‘lovelock’ did in the Elizabethan era.

Not wearing a wig was also the more common fashion amongst women, throughout this period. One of the most striking examples of women’s hair from the 18th century that The Limner Company has been able to look into is the portrait of an unknown woman by John Smart (1741-1811), from 1785 [20]. She has a wonderful head of pink hair, which is thrown up into a curly updo and adorned with an ostrich feather. Her hair only emphasises her glamour, and complements the lilac dress that she wears. This brings us back to the fact that powdering hair was extremely popular, and though wigs may not have been worn so commonly by women, the former trend was certainly one that they participated in. Another fine example of natural hair being styled in the same period can be found in Engleheart’s portrait of a ‘Miss Hill’. The sitter wears a ribbon in her hair, that is possibly powdered to give it the off-white colour that it has. Again, it is all her own hair, just curled and styled in a way to make it look voluminous. Women who were wearing wigs at the time were made fun of for this fashion, and were the target of satire, so it is not surprising that this was something that they were avoiding.

John Smart was likely to know a lot about the trends and fashions in hair, his father having been a peruke or wig maker in London [20]. It may have been for this reason that he tended to focus so much on this feature within his portrait miniatures and adorned his sitters with so many different coloured coiffures. Another example of him doing this can be found in his portrait miniature of Consul Charles Murray (fig. 7) [22]. Again, he wears his hair en queue, and has a pink head of hair, that could possibly be a wig.


Fig. 6 [left]: John Smart, Portrait Miniature of a Lady, 1785, watercolour on ivory (54mm high) - sold by The Limner Company.
Fig. 7 [right]: John Smart, A Gentleman, traditionally identified as Consul Murray, 1772, watercolour on ivory (31mm high) - to be offered by The Limner Company at London Art Week 2024.

Past the point of powder

In the early 19th century, the colourful, powdered hair, that seems so intriguing to the modern eye, became less popular. It was in this period that a lot of the portraits that we see not only feature the sitter’s natural hair but also their natural hair colour. Remaining on portraits of women, the portrait miniature of Martha Walsh (née Bellingham) by Anne Langton (1804-1893) [23] shows this change. Her hair is still quite voluminous, and there is a hint towards the styling of Smart and Englehart, however it is clearly meant to look more natural, and less toyed with. This is certainly the case with its colour.

Part of the reason for this is that there were now limits on the purchase of powder. In 1795 a licence fee had been put in place, meaning that not as many people could afford to buy powder any more. The only people who were not subject to this fee were soldiers and the royal family. Of course, this did not stop the use of powder completely, and some people were still willing to pay the price. Still, it provides some explanation as to why sitters like Martha Bellingham appeared to be more natural. It also reveals to us that other sitters may have simply just liked powdered hair as a style, and wanted to continue wearing it as a trend. This could be suggested for Pakenham, who was painted with powdered hair by Hone (fig.9) following the introduction of this powder licence.


Fig. 8 [left]: Anne Langton, Portrait of Martha Walsh (née Bellingham), 1832, watercolour on ivory (102mm high) - The Limner Company.
Fig. 9 [right]: Horace Hone, Portrait miniature of of Sir Thomas Pakenham, 1799, watercolour on ivory (73mm high) - The Limner Company.

Conclusion 
The history of hair warrants a much longer explanation than this blog can give. However, it can be seen through these examples of miniatures that hair was more than just hair. This was something that could demonstrate trends at the time, but can also tell us more personal information about the sitters in these portraits. Whether this was their relationship status, their professional status, or simply whether they could afford to may a fee or not, it goes to show that this top third of portraits is not one that should be overlooked.

[1]  Albrecht Dürer, Self Portrait, 1500, oil on panel (61.7 cm x 48.9 cm), Alte Pinakothek, Munich, accession number: 537. 

[2]  Sandro Botticelli, The Birth of Venus, c.1484-1486, tempera on canvas (172.5 cm × 278.9 cm), Uffizi, Florence, accession number: 1890 n. 878.

[3]  John Everett Millais, The Bridesmaid, 1851, oil on panel (27.9 cm x 20.3 cm), Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, accession number: 499*. 

[4]  Isaac Oliver, Portrait of a Nobleman, c.1610s, watercolour on vellum (41mm high), previously with The Limner Company. 

[5]  Illustrated in K. Coombs, The Portrait Miniature in England, V & A Publications, London, 1998, p.39.

[6]  A Man among Flames, Nicholas Hilliard, Watercolour on Vellum (69x 54mm), Victoria and Albert Museum, London, accession number: P.5-1917.

[7] Nicholas Hilliard, Lady Dorothy Sidney (née Percy) (c.1598-1659), later Countess of Leicester, c.1615, Watercolour on Vellum (52mm), with The Limner Company. 

[8]  K. Coombs, The Portrait Miniature in England, V & A Publications, London, 1998, p. 51. 

[9] Matthew Snelling, King Charles II, c.1665, watercolour on vellum (80mm high), with The Limner Company. 

[10] David des Granges, Portrait of a Gentleman, watercolour on vellum (54mm high), with The Limner Company. 

[11]  R. Corson, Fashions in Hair: the first five thousand years, Hillary House, New York, 1971, p. 205. 

[12]  Samuel Pepys, The Diary of Samuel Pepys, entry Monday, 2nd November, 1663. Accessed online, https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/1663/11/02/. 

[13]  Nicolas Dixon, Portrait of a Nobleman, watercolour on vellum, with The Limner Company. 

[14] Bernard Lens, Portrait of Oliver Cromwell, watercolour on vellum (28mm high), with The Limner Company. 

[15]  R. Corson, Fashions in Hair: the first five thousand years, Hillary House, New York, 1971, p.264.

[16] Noah Seaman, A Portrait Enamel of a Professional, c.1730, enamel on metal (44m high), with The Limner Company. 

[17]  R. Corson (1971) says that the first date was about 1703. (R. Corson, Fashions in Hair: the first five thousand years, Hillary House, New York, 1971, p. 275).

[18] Abby Cox, Historian Reacts to Weird History's History of Powdered Wigs, YouTube video, 12th June 2022, accessed online: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PIYUVHIUdfM&t=945s. 

[19] Horace Hone, Portrait of Sir Thomas Pakenham, 1799, watercolour on ivory (73mm high), with The Limner Company. 

[20] John Smart, Portrait Miniature of a Lady, 1785, watercolour on ivory (54mm high), sold through The Limner Company. 

[21] E. Rutherford et. al, John Smart (1741-1811): A Genius Magnified, Philip Mould & Company, 2014. 

[22] John Smart, A Gentleman, traditionally identified as Consul Murray, 1772, watercolour on ivory (31mm high), with The Limner Company. 

[23] Anne Langton, Portrait of Martha Walsh (née Bellingham), 1832, watercolour on ivory (102mm high), with The Limner Company.

In the April 2024 issue of The Burlington Magazine, an important miniature by Nicholas Hilliard (c.1547-1619) was published for the first time in an article by Elizabeth Goldring and Emma Rutherford, having just emerged from a private collection. The discovery and the intriguing story behind the portrait’s commission, have since featured in The Times newspaper (27 May 2024), BBC News online (5 June 2024), Not Just the Tudors podcast (6 June 2024), Country Life magazine (24 July 2024), Talking Tudors podcast (25 July 2024) and The Tudor Chest podcast (26 September 2024).



The portrait adds significantly to our understanding of Hilliard’s practice and patronage and constitutes the artist’s only known completed cabinet miniature of a female subject. What’s more, the sitter can be identified as Lady Arbella (or Arabella) Stuart (1575–1615), and the commission connected with a fascinating episode of spycraft in late Elizabethan England.

Elizabeth and Emma spent over a year researching this portrait, and it’s with enormous excitement that it is finally published. 

Detail of fig.2. Portrait enamel of Lady Emma Hamilton (née Emily Lyon) (1765-1815), formerly called ‘Ariadne’ or ‘Absence’, 1835, Henry Pierce Bone (1779-1855), after George Romney (1743-1802) – The Limner Company

Emma, Lady Hamilton (1765-1815) was one of the most famous women in the western world during the eighteenth century, and she continues to capture the public imagination today as the subject of plays, exhibitions, novels and history books.[1] So why does her celebrity endure through the ages?

Emma was beautiful and charming, but there was no shortage of such women in the late Georgian age, and as many beautiful portraits. Perhaps one of the reasons she stands out was her powers as a model: where her contemporaries often appear prim and proper, she is expressive and was an active participant in what appears to have often been artistic partnerships. She was painted, drawn or sculpted by more than 30 different artists in her lifetime (including 10 miniaturists), many of whom she sat to multiple times.[2]

Hers is also an intriguing story of rags to riches (and *SPOILER ALERT* rags again). Her social mountaineering saw her gain considerable status and fame. Yet Emma’s life was far from a fairy tale, which is testament to another of quality that endears her to the modern audience: formidable resilience.

In this blog article, I attempt to explain what makes Emma so captivating with a potted history of her life and artistic achievements.

Emma was born 26th April 1765 in the small, poor village of Ness, Cheshire, which has been described as a rural slum. Her parents were an illiterate blacksmith, Henry Lyon and his wife, Mary (née Kidd, later called ‘Mrs Cadogan’). She was baptized ‘Emy’[3] (perhaps Emily, sometimes called Amy) in May 1765, and just one month later, her father died. Left to fend for themselves, mother and child returned to Mary’s family home in Flintshire. It was an impoverished upbringing with no education, yet her mother and maternal grandmother were resourceful, providing enough for Emy to be a robust and healthy girl by the time she left home for domestic service aged 12.

Emy - whose name would go through several variations before settling on Emma – worked first for a local family before moving to London, on her own at just 13 years of age. Accounts of her early years in London suggest she was enchanted by London, particularly the actresses of Covent Garden. Emma also worked as a nursemaid in the household of music and theatre impresario, Dr Thomas Linley, and may have first discovered her own talents for singing and acting at this time. Her employment with the Linley family came to a tragic end however, when two of their children died.

Emma was sacked from multiple other jobs for venturing out after dark with friends. She came to be living on the streets, possibly her own behaviour in this way making it impossible for her to hold a job in a respectable household. Alone, adrift and increasingly goodlooking, Emma was pulled to the fringes of society. She found employment with the madame known as ‘Mrs Kelly’ (real name Charlotte Hayes), who presided over a high-end brothel at King’s Place, Covent Garden. There is no solid evidence that Emma worked as a prostitute, as she may have been a maid for Mrs Kelly, but in a letter some years later to artist George Romney (1734-1802), Emma wrote: “for a time I own through distress my virtue was vanquished, but my sense of virtue was not overcome.’ At this time, Emma also worked as a scantily-dressed attendant at the Temple of Health, a bogus medical establishment set up by quack Dr James Graham, where infertile couples paid to use a 'celestial bed'.

It’s at King’s Place that Emma is likely to have met the wealthy playboy (and later MP for Portsmouth), Sir Harry Fetherstonhaugh, Bt. (1754 –1846). Desiring to make her his mistress, Fetherstonhaugh plucked her from Covent Garden and installed her at his country house of Uppark, Sussex. Emma was by now quite striking (thought to be around 5ft 10 in adulthood, and very beautiful, with looks that were particularly appealing in the age of neoclassicism) and he fashioned her as the hostess of his country seat. As the playboy’s plaything, Emma learnt to read, write and horse ride, as well as develop a taste for bon vivant. The party came to an end however when Emma fell pregnant, and Fetherstonhaugh cast her aside.

Emma returned home to her mother and grandmother, giving birth to a daughter on 12 March 1782, known as ‘Little Emma’. Not yet 17, Emma was near destitute with a baby, but, with characteristic resolve, she saw an opportunity in another wealthy gentleman. Emma wrote to the Hon. Charles Francis Greville (1749–1809), a friend of Fetherstonhaugh’s whom she must have noticed taking a shine to her at Uppark. Greville agreed to help, housing her as his mistress (and her mother, now going by the name ‘Mrs Cadogan’) on the agreement that she leave the baby behind. It is possibly also through his coercion that she changed her name, hereafter using the surname Hart.


Fig. 1 Emma Hart (later Lady Hamilton) as Circe, 1782, George Romney, oil on canvas – Waddesdon Manor (accession 104.1995)

Emma settled comfortably with Greville, who introduced her into society, and in April 1782, took her to George Romney to sit for a portrait. Romney was immediately struck by her beauty and vivacity and took her on as a model. It’s unclear whether Greville had a deliberate plan for Emma to earn her keep in this way, or whether he commissioned portraits of his mistress for his own enjoyment, only looking to sell them at a later date when he needed funds. Both have been suggested by historians.

As Romney’s model and increasingly muse, Emma gained notoriety. Romney was captivated to the point where Emma preoccupied almost his entire painting practice, sitting to him well over 100 times between 1782-86.[4] She was a gifted actress and posed in a great variety of guises; the resulting images ranking among the most engaging portraits of the age. Thus, in her late teens and early 20s, Emma became a well-known beauty.

Meanwhile, Greville found himself in financial trouble and he sought to set Emma aside and find a suitable bride with a considerable dowry. A solution came to him in the form of his widowed uncle, Sir William Hamilton (1731–1803). Hamilton, British envoy to the Neapolitan court in Italy, had met Emma on a trip to London in 1783 and been immediately taken with her. During his stay, Hamilton had even commissioned both Romney and Sir Joshua Reynolds to paint her and had her portrait sent back to his house in Naples.

Greville negotiated with Hamilton to send Emma to him in Naples, in exchange for being named Hamilton’s heir. It was a sordid scheme, with Emma led to believe that she was embarking on an educational sojourn and would return to London. Romney, however, was privy to Greville’s plan and started painting her more frenetically than ever. It’s from a painting dating to this time that a portrait for sale with The Limner Company by Henry Pierce Bone (1779-1855) [fig.2] derives.


Fig. 2 Portrait enamel of Lady Emma Hamilton (née Emily Lyon) (1765-1815), formerly called ‘Ariadne’ or ‘Absence’, 1835, Henry Pierce Bone after George Romney; enamel, 7 ¼ in (185mm) high – The Limner Company

Romney’s oil painting, now at the National Maritime Museum (Greenwich, London), depicts Emma seated in front of a seascape with a forbidding sky, her mournful countenance cast down. Probably finished it after Emma left England in April 1786, it has been suggested that the image could be a reflection of the artist’s own feelings for her abroad.[5] In the nineteenth century, the painting became known as 'Lady Hamilton as Ariadne' since it was thought to show Emma posing as this daughter of King Minos of Crete, who helped Theseus to escape from the Minotaur's labyrinth only to be abandoned by him on the island of Naxos. It remained in Romney’s studio until after his death, when it was listed by one of his assistants as 'Absence’.

Emma learned only after her arrival in Naples that Greville had given her up. She was heartbroken, writing gut-wrenching letters back to London. She soon took to Neapolitan life however and got on well with the Hamilton, who, although 30 years her senior, was kindly to her (and absolutely besotted). Emma learnt to speak Italian and French, and came to be a local society figure, although not necessarily well-liked. By the end of 1786, she had become Hamilton’s mistress.

Emma’s renown was about to skyrocket with another artistic[6] endeavour. She trained her singing voice and, started performing tableaux vivant for dinner guests. The performances were imitations of classical figures from Sir William’s collection of antique Greek vases, and he would oversee the shows acting as master of ceremonies. Scantily-clad in diaphanous, toga-like dresses, and often with her (very long) hair worn loose, it would have been quite a titillating spectacle; Emma perhaps drew on her experience at the Dr Graham’s ‘Temple of Health’ in conceiving the show.

These performances, which became known as her ‘Attitudes’, were hugely enjoyed by Hamilton’s many guests, including the Hanoverian artist, Friedrich Rehberg (1758-1835), who visited Naples in 1791. Rehberg captured her tableaux vivant in a series of 12 drawings, which were published a few years later in Rome, running into many editions of prints and sold widely across the Continent. Already quite famous, Emma became a sensation across Europe and an artistic inspiration, sitting to numerous artists in the 1790s including Angelica Kauffman (1741-1807) [fig.3], Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830)[7] and Elizabeth Vigée le brun (1755-1842)[8].


Fig. 3 Portrait of Emma, Lady Hamilton, as Muse of Comedy, 1791, by Angelica Kauffmann; oil on canvas, 127 x 101.6 cm - Private Collection (currently on display at The Royal Academy, London, in their Angelica Kauffmann exhibition, 1 March – 30 June 2024). 

Even prior to this, in 1787, Emma described Hamilton’s ambassadorial residence in Naples as being ‘full of painters painting me. [Sir William] has now got nine pictures of me, and 2 a painting. Marchant is cutting my head in stone, that is in cameo for a ring [Fig. 4] ... There is another man modeling me in wax, and another in clay. All the artists is come from Rome’.[9]


Fig. 4 Portrait of Emma Hart, Later Lady Hamilton (1765–1803), 1786-87, Nathaniel Marchant (1739–1816); smoky chalcedony, silver-gilt; dimensions of visible cameo 27.3 x 21 mm - The Metropolitan Museum of Art (The Milton Weil Collection, 1940)

Sir William took Emma back to London to marry her in September 1791, making her Lady Hamilton. It was a fleeting visit, but Emma made time to sit for Romney on the day of their wedding, not once but twice: in the morning and again later the same day after the ceremony.

Now Lady Hamilton and a senior diplomat’s wife, Emma had gained status, even if she was still considered low-born and her behaviour uncouth[10]. Travelling back via Paris, Emma was summoned to meet Marie-Antoinette while the French queen was under house arrest at the Tuileries Palace. Marie Antoinette asked her to carry a letter to Naples to her sister, Maria Carolina, Queen of Naples. Emma was thereby ingratiated with Maria Carolina and accepted at court. They soon become firm friends and Emma a close confidante of the queen.[11] Thus Emma’s celebrity was such that she was virtually unrivalled, yet she was about to collide with one of the few whose notoriety equalled her own…

Emma first met with Horatio Nelson (1758-1805) (then a Captain) in September 1793, but it was not until 1798 that their infamous love affair began. Before their second meeting, Emma had written gushing letters to the now celebrate war hero inviting him to Naples. When he arrived, bruised, battered and feted by the whole of Europe (excluding the French), Emma was immediately theatrical in her displays of affection for him. Their affair began a few months later after Nelson came to the rescue of the Hamiltons (and the Neapolitan royal family) when revolution broke out in Naples.

While Sir William did express concern for the scandal, he more than accepted the relationship, perhaps because he himself was so fond of Nelson. The three of them spent much time together, calling themselves the tria juncta in uno (‘three joined in one’ - the motto of the Order of the Bath, of which Nelson and Hamilton were both members). Emma was pregnant with Nelson’s child by the time Sir William was recalled to England by the British government in 1800, and the three returned together.

On their return journey, they stopped in Dresden where Nelson and Hamilton were painted in miniature by court artist, Johann Heinrich Schmidt. Emma’s miniature, now at the National Maritime Museum, was treasured by Nelson and it was hanging in his cabin on HMS Victory at his death.

Back in London, Nelson gave up his wife for Emma and moved-in with the Hamiltons in Piccadilly. Emma soon gave birth to twins, only one of whom survived – a daughter to be named Horatia and given the surname Thompson, the same Nelson had used in his first letters to Emma. The trio and the new baby, continued to live together between Piccadilly and Nelson’s house, Merton Place (near Wimbledon, London), but they were lambasted by the press and ridiculed at court.

Sir William died in London on 6 April 1803 with Emma and Nelson at his side, leaving the bulk of his estate, as agreed, to Greville. Whereupon, Emma and Nelson took up full time residence at Merton Place. The couple greatly enjoyed entertaining and were extremely generous hosts. Contemporary accounts are disparaging about Emma and Nelson’s lifestyle, and Emma in particular was drinking and eating excessively by this time. Descriptions also pour scorn on the décor at Merton, which seems to have been furnished as a lavish shrine to the couple. Lord Minto wrote: 'The whole house, staircase and all, are covered with nothing but pictures of her and him, of all sizes and sorts, and representations of his naval actions, coats of arms, pieces of plate in his honour’.[12]

Emma hoped for Nelson to retire from the Navy, but when war with France resumed in 1803, he was appointed commander-in-chief in the Mediterranean. Emma was left behind raising Horatia at Merton. She may have also given birth again at the end of 1803/early in 1804. This third child was named Little Emma by Nelson but must have died shortly after birth.

In a brief trip home, in August 1805, Nelson and Emma received holy communion together and exchanged rings in what he believed as a marriage in the eyes of God. This trip was the last time the couple would see each other, and less than two months later, Nelson was killed at the Battle of Trafalgar. 

Emma was devastated by his death, and it marked a steep decline in her circumstances. Shunned by society for the impropriety of their relationship, her working-class origins and indecorous ways, Emma was not allowed to attend Nelson’s funeral. She had mounting debts but continued to spend lavishly. Emma had grown accustomed to an extravagant lifestyle, but now had only modest funds. Within 3 years of Nelson’s death, Emma was over £15,000 in debt.

In desperation, she turned to gambling and even sold mementos of Nelson to support herself and her daughter. Her efforts were to no avail however, and Emma was arrested for debt in 1813 (although permitted to live with Horatia on parole in nearby lodgings rather than debtors’ prison). With the help of a friend she was able to extract enough of her annuity from Nelson’s brother to free herself. Emma then fled abroad to Calais with Horatia, but she could not out run her health which was increasingly failing. Years of overindulgence and an escalating drinking habit finally caught-up with her, and Emma died in penury on 15th January 1815.

Thus, Emma’s vertiginous rise was matched by a swift and cruel downfall. Yet her image and story remain popular, and two centuries after her death, she still has the power to beguile.


Fig. 5 Portrait of Emma Hamilton, 1791, Angelica Kauffmann; Black and white chalk, on gray prepared paper; sheet dimensions 14 3/16 x 16 11/16 in. (36 x 42.4 cm) – The Metropolitan Museum of Art (Purchase, several members of The Chairman's Council Gifts, 2003)

[1] Recent examples include Gillian Lacey-Solymar’s production, Irrepressible, at last year’s Edinburgh Fringe; the Royal Museum Greenwich’s 2017 exhibition, Emma Hamilton: Seduction and Celebrity; Professor Kate Williams’s book, England’s Mistress; and a work of contemporary fiction by Shappi Khorsandi, Kissing Emma, which was inspired by Emma’s story.

[2] A catalogue at the National Portrait Gallery of known works can be accessed online here:  https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/personExtended/mp01999/emma-nee-lyon-lady-hamilton?tab=iconography   

[3] Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, accessed online 10 April 2024 https://www-oxforddnb-com.lonlib.idm.oclc.org/display/10.1093/ref:odnb/9780198614128.001.0001/odnb-9780198614128-e-12063?rskey=s0KsKY&result=2 

[4] https://www.npg.org.uk/whatson/exhibitions/2002/george-romney/emma-hamilton - accessed 10 April 2024

[5] https://www.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/rmgc-object-14210 - accessed 10 April 2024

[6] I use the term ‘artistic’ here as, although these performances would have been conceived as a form of entertainment and not thought of as ‘art’, we might today consider them a form of artistic expression.  

[7] Lawrence’s monumental portrait of Emma as La Penserosa, 1791-92 (Duke of Abercorn Collection) was exhibited at the Royal Museum Greenwich’s 2017 exhibition, ‘Emma Hamilton: Seduction and Celebrity’, and can be viewed on their blog here. 

[8] Vigée le Brun is recorded has painting Emma multiple times between 1790-1792. One of her portraits of Emma as Bacchante was copied in miniature by Henry Bone (1755 - 1834) in 1803, now at the Wallace Collection, London, here.  

[9] J. Ingamells, Dictionary of British and Irish Travellers in Italy 1701-1800, compiled from the Brinsley Ford Archive, 1997, p. 456 – quoted here.

[10] Vigée Le Brun wrote in her diaries that, ‘Lady Hamilton was not very intelligent, although she was exceedingly mocking and denigrating, to the point that her faults were her only means of conversation. But she was cunning, and this helped her to snare a husband’. 

[11] It was Queen Caroline who introduced Emma to Vigée le Brun, who, having been painter at the French court, had fled the Revolution to Naples.

[12] Life and Letters of Sir Gilbert Elliot, First Earl of Minto, ed. countess of Minto, 3 vols., 1874, 3.242 – quoted in ODNB

Recent research into a portrait miniature by Heinrich Friederich Füger (1751-1818) revealed a network of connections that the artist had, from across Austria, Germany, and Italy. The portrait miniature in question is of Count Joseph Johannn von Fries (fig. 1), a high flying and extremely wealthy Austrian patron. On a search for a date for the portrait, I came across the mentions of Fries in Johann Wolfgang Goethe’s Italian journey, and this led to an investigation into a web of connections between these artists, their patrons, and other culturally significant figures of the time.


Fig. 1: H. F. Füger, Portrait miniature of Count Joseph Johann von Fries (1765-1788), c.1774-1785, Watercolour and Bodycolour on Ivory, Oval, 77mm high. - The Limner Company (to be offered in the online selling exhibition, Miniatures in May, 13 - 18 May 2024)

What seemed particularly striking was the apparent similarity between the work of Füger and his (slightly older) contemporary, Angelica Kauffman (1741-1807). Kauffman is recognised as one of the most accomplished female artists of her time. The current exhibition at the Royal Academy of the Arts, London, tracks her career through different countries and the different genres of painting that she explored[1].

Füger would go on to have a similar life, yet he has not enjoyed the same popularity and major exhibitions in Britain. Heinrich Friederich Füger was born in Heilbronn on December 8th, 1751. He enjoyed a successful career in painting full-scale as well as miniature portraits and historical scenes. There is yet to be an English-language monograph published on the artist. One of the most recent publications on the artist, in German, was written by Robert Keil in 2009. Keil provides an in-depth look into the life, education, and oeuvre of the artist. Fügeralso features in a large entry in Schidlof’s The Miniature in Europe (vol.1, 1964), and from these sources we are able to reconstruct a general narrative of the life of the artist, from which the offshoots of high-flying connections slowly appear.

Füger’s early life and education

It is generally accepted that Füger painted his first portrait miniature at the age of 11. It may have been the artistic talent that he demonstrated through this miniature that convinced his father to send him to an art academy when he was  15. Here, Füger was under the leadership of artist Nicolas Guibal (1725-1784). It is through Guibal that Füger’s artistic network began to expand. Guibal’s father had been a sculptor and before becoming a teacher, he had travelled to Italy, and worked closely with Anton Raphael Mengs (1728-1779). We will come across this name later, as someone who would become a great influence to Füger once he ventured out of the German-speaking world. Later on in Füger’s career he would go back to paint Guibal and his wife in miniature form[2]. One of these miniatures is now held in the Landesmuseum, Stuttgart.

The young Heinrich clearly hadn’t felt that art was for him, and was too intimidated by his peers and his predecessors[3]. As a result, he was sent to study law in Halle in 1768. Here, he was accompanied by his brother Gottlieb Christian Füger (1749-c.1793), who was studying theology. It is evident that, throughout their lives, the two brothers had a good relationship. We see this in the portrait miniature of him and his brother, sat in front of a piano[4]. An oval miniature in this form is not uncommon for Füger, who had painted the daughters of the engraver Johann Friederich Bause in a similar style[5]. It appears to be more in the style of a genre painting than a typical portrait miniature. This is something that Keil (2009) mentions; when Füger paints portraits like these he is aiming to represent each sitter by their activity. In the case of him and his brother, Heinrich stands, holding what appears to be a paintbrush, while his brother does what he knows best, which is playing music. A similar thing can be said about his miniature of Guibal, which depicts him holding a paintbrush and palette, in front of statues and other mediums of art in the background.


Fig. 2 H. F. Füger, Self Portrait with his brother, Gottlieb Christian Füger, watercolour on ivory, 10.5 x 13.6 cm, c. 1768, Berlin, Staatliche Museen Berlin, Alte Nationalgalerie, inventory no. A I 932. 

Not before long, Füger had tuned back into his artistic abilities, and was beginning to paint again. He started learning again under Adam Friederich Oeser (1717-1799). Here we find another branch out into the world of arts and culture of the period. Oeser was an artist himself, and had opened an academy in Leipzig in 1764, just before Füger arrived in the city. His other students included Johann Wolfgang Goethe, and he inspired the work of Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717-1768).  Though an actual meeting between Goethe and Füger cannot be proven, Goethe would go on to lurk on the outskirts of our artist’s life.

After Leipzig, he would move on to Dresden. It was here that Füger was able to exhibit some of his early works. In 1771, the Dresden exhibition featured a work that would become extremely important in his career- if not for how it looked but for who it depicted. That was the portrait miniature of Sir Robert Murray Keith (1730-1795)[6]. Keith was a diplomat based in Dresden, who would later be sent to Copenhagen, and then Vienna. What was important for Füger was Keith’s diplomatic connections and the chance he provided to become a patron to the artist. The miniature certainly captures the fact that Keith was a diplomat, as he is pictured wearing his official dress. He has a capturing gaze, which makes the viewer feel that he is important. This miniature may be more ‘traditional’ than the double portrait of Füger and his brother, in the fact that this portrait is not showing the sitter doing anything in particular. However, Füger has still managed to demonstrate the status of Keith, if not only in society, but also to the artist personally.

Moving further South

Keith would be important to Füger when he went on to travel to Vienna, alongside other artists and persons of political influence that he had met along the way. This trip to the Austrian capital had taken place after Füger returned to his hometown, Heilbronn, between 1772 and 1774. His movement back towards the larger cities of the German-speaking world signified a move up the artist’s scale further than just a British diplomat. It was in Vienna that Füger would be introduced to other, more important political figures, including the State Chancellor, Prince Kaunitz (1711-1894), and more importantly, the imperial family. It was through painting the Imperial family that Füger was able to create a good enough impression to be sent on his way to Rome. This was under the guidance of Prince Kaunitz in 1776, with four other Austrian artists. This was not a holiday, or a grand tour, but a scholarship, in which Kaunitz had set out aims for what the students were meant to follow and to achieve. This was very much based on ancient and Italian tradition. The many extant works from this period reflect this learning, and depict a lot of historical scenes[7]. However, it can also be seen that Füger was enjoying influence from other artists both alive and dead. One such example, mentioned earlier, was Mengs, but the artist was not only to be influenced by others who had come from the same part of the world as him. Kiel (2009) also mentions French influences, of the likes of Poussin and Le Seur, as well as older Italian masters such as Domenichino and Raphael.

During this period, Füger continued to paint miniatures as he had always done. One example of these is one of his self-portraits in miniature, painted on ivory[8]. This particular example demonstrates a few of the changes in the artist’s technique that were emerging at this point in time. Importantly, we can see a large amount of expression in the artist’s face, which is something that Keil states was a direct influence of Domenichino and Raphael[9]. Painting in miniature was not something that Kaunitz had prescribed to Füger in his curriculum, so here we can see the artist beginning to learn for himself, and slowly break away from just being the student.

Patrons and connections in Italy

Despite these new developments in his artistic techniques, a lot of the ways in which Füger was socialising and making connections in this new location remained the same. Goethe has already been mentioned as a tangential connection to Füger’s life, and it was in this period that the two were actually residing in the same place, and socialising with the same people. Goethe’s Italian Journey, aside from the insights it gives into the life of a young man who was learning more about the arts himself, is also an incredible source as a who’s who of Italy in the period that he was there. Füger is not mentioned by name, but Fries, the sitter in this blog’s keynote portrait miniature, certainly is. Goethe mentions the art that Fries was buying, as well as the camaraderie that he provided.

The same sort of story can be told by another frequent mention in Goethe’s travel work, Angelica Kauffman. Often intimately referred to as ‘Angelica’, the successful artist of the period was slightly older than both Füger and Goethe. It is possible that Kauffman also acted as an influence to Füger, which can certainly be seen when comparing their works.  Both artists painted the same sitters on multiple occasions, which demonstrates not only the influence that artists that were all going to the same places enjoyed, but also the mutuality of their connections

These people included Fries himself (fig.1)[10]. It is not known at which date he was painted by Füger, but what is known is that Kauffman painted a portrait of the wealthy patron in 1787[11]. By this point, Füger had left Italy, so it is possible that he painted Fries upon his return to Vienna, or even just copied Kauffman’s portrait into miniature form. Many similarities can be found between the two depictions. Firstly, his magnificent hat, which is adorned with a large  feather- something that Goethe notes as being important currency within some places in Italy at the time [12]. Furthermore, he wears the same red damask, that is also placed as a feature in the reverse of the miniature by Füger. Both portraits depict the patron, who was heavily invested in the arts, in a flamboyant light.

Both of these portraits also bear similar resemblance to that painted by Füger of Prince Nikolai Borisovich Yusupov (fig.3). This portrait is now held in the State Hermitage Museum and depicts an important Russian nobleman and art collector of the time. Though no known portrait by Kauffman exists for us to compare this to, we do know that Yusupov was also a patron of the Swiss Artist. This portrait, again, shows a well-dressed and flamboyant character. He also wears a red cape, and is pictured against a moody sky, giving a viewer a sense of his importance and power. Though this is a portrait in full, and not in miniature, it reflects the idea, mentioned earlier, that these portraits being done by Füger were not meant to just simply show a person at face value, but to show us their personality, too.


Fig. 3. Heinrich Friederich Füger, Portrait of Prince Nikolai Borisovich Yusupov, 1783, oil on canvas, 87cm x 112cm, State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg, inventory no. ГЭ-5770.  

In 1781, Füger had moved to Naples, and it was here that he was put in contact with Queen Maria Carolina (Karolina) of Naples and Sicily (1752-1814). The daughter of Francis I, Holy Roman Emperor, and sister of Marie Antoinette, this particular patron lay in the centre of an important royal European circle. He would have painted her family before as part of his work for the imperial family in Austria. He was able to create a few portraits of the sitter, including a miniature (fig.4). She was a patron of many successful artists, including Kauffman and Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun (1755-1842). The former painted her in a portrait (fig.4), as well in a family portrait[13]. There are fewer similarities between the portraits completed by Kauffman and Füger of this particular patron, however the coincidence of them both painting her adds to the list of common patrons and connections that they shared.


Fig. 4 [left]  Heinrich Friederich Füger, Portrait of Maria Karolina, Queen of Naples, signed and dated Füger p.1790, watercolour on ivory, 17.6 cm x 13cm, Vienna, Albertina, inventory no. 30194. 

Fig. 5 [right] Angelica Kauffman, Portrait of Maria Carolina of Austria, c. 1782-1783, oil on canvas Bregenz, Vorarlberg Museum. 

After Italy

Just after painting Prince Yusupov, Füger returned to Vienna. Here, he was able to continue his successful career and remained connected to well-off patrons. These included Admiral Horatio Nelson, whom he painted numerous times. Füger also painted Nelson’s mistress, Emma Hamilton, when she returned home from Naples. Hamilton was well-painted, and her life alone would require its own post (watch this space…). However, she again was connected to Füger through different people, being mentioned in Goethe’s works, and having been painted by Kauffman[14].

It was at this point in his life that Füger was able to truly move away from being the student, and into being the teacher. He was appointed at the Academy of Fine arts in the same year that he returned to the Austrian capital, 1783, and soon settled down to start a family with actress Josephine Hortensia Müller. The remaining years of Füger’s life saw him move away from miniatures, especially following a diagnosis of an eye disease in 1798, a common fate for those who had spent so much time looking so closely at their miniatures. In 1806, after painting the large-scale portraits of Nelson and Hamilton he was appointed director of the Royal Academy of Pictures. He would remain in Vienna until his death, in the winter of 1818.

For Füger, travelling across Germany, Austria, and Italy had allowed him to create and maintain important connections with artists and patrons. It is through these very connections, and the paintings that resulted from them, that we are able to reconstruct a map of who he knew. What we find is that he was connected to people who are seen to many as being cultural icons today, and that the influence of these people can be traced within his art, such as his Portrait of Portrait of Count Joseph Johann von Fries (fig.1).

[1] London, Royal Academy of Arts, Angelica Kauffman, Wednesday 28 February 2024 – Sunday 30 June 2024.

[2] Inventory no. 1951/1527. R. Keil, Wien, 2009, Heinrich Friedrich Füger (1751 - 1818). Nur wenigen ist es vergönnt das Licht der Wahrheit zu sehen, reproduced WV36, p. 206. 

[3] ‘After seeing the historical pictures of Charles le Brun, he lost courage’, L. Schidlof, Graz, 1964, The Miniature in Europe in the 16th, 17th, 18th, and 19th Centuries, vol.1, p.273. 

[4] In the Staatlisches Museen, Berlin, 

[5] R. Keil, Wien, 2009, Heinrich Friedrich Füger (1751 - 1818). Nur wenigen ist es vergönnt das Licht der Wahrheit zu sehen, reproduced in colour, pl. 1. 

[6] Keil (2009) states that the version in the Albertina, Vienna is a second version (p.37). R. Keil, Wien, 2009, Heinrich Friedrich Füger (1751 - 1818). Nur wenigen ist es vergönnt das Licht der Wahrheit zu sehen, reproduced WV24, p. 202. For another version, see online, at the Marburg Photo Archive, https://www.bildindex.de/document/obj00002611. 

[7] Many of which can be found in the Albertina, Vienna. 

[8] Heinrich Friederich Füger, Self Portrait in Black Shirt, c.1777, Vienna, Albertina, inventory no. 29572. 

[9] R. Keil, Wien, 2009, Heinrich Friedrich Füger (1751 - 1818). Nur wenigen ist es vergönnt das Licht der Wahrheit zu sehen, p.46. 

[10] Heinrich Friederich Füger, Portrait of Portrait of Count Joseph Johannn von Fries (1765-1788), c.1774-1785, Watercolour and Bodycolour on Ivory, Oval, 77mm high. Exhibited with The Limner Company X Period Portraits, online, Miniatures in May, 2024. 

[11] Angelica Kauffman, Joseph Johann Graf Fries, 1787, oil on canvas, 128.5 x 102.5 cm, Vienna, Wien Museum. See online at https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/joseph-Johannn-graf-fries-angelica-angelika-kauffmann/ywH5FQ5TuXFISQ?hl=en. 

[12] Goethe mentions this- ‘I frequently had the occasion to observe that the people here [around the Brenner Pass] have attached great value to peacock feathers and, indeed, to any brightly coloured feather.’ W. J. Goethe, Penguin, London, 1970, Italian Journey, p.34.

[13] Angelica Kauffman, Portrait of Ferdinand IV of Naples, and his Family, oil on canvas, 310 x 426 cm, 1783, Naples, Museo di Capodimonte, inventory no. OA 6557. 

[14] Kauffman painted Hamilton on numerous occasions. One example, Portrait of Emma, Lady Hamilton as Muse of Comedy (1791), has been exhibited at the 2024 Kauffman exhibition at the Royal Academy. See https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibition/angelica-kauffman. 

In the late 18th and 19th centuries in Europe, specifically Dutch and Flemish cities and France, miniature paintings depicting intricate arrangement of flowers, fruits, landscapes and seascapes had a surge in popularity. Although the specifics of who commissioned these portrait miniatures remain largely unknown, their significance was undeniable. These compositions, all rich in symbolism, conveyed themes of abundance, transience and the overall ephemeral beauty of nature, profoundly influenced by the 17th century Dutch tradition.


Fig 1. Unknown, Landscape, Fixé-sous-verre. The Limner Company 

Still-Life

17th century Dutch still-life paintings, or Vanitas as they were often called, were symbolic works about the brevity of life and the vanity of worldly pursuits. Each object would have had a distinct iconographic symbolism with moralistic undertones. Despite being formalized as a distinct genre by the French Academy in the late 17th century, still-life painting occupied a lower rank in the hierarchy of artistic genres. The tradition of the subject matter continued to evolve through the Baroque and Rococo periods, with floral motifs permeating various forms of art and design, from paintings to curtains, furniture, and wallpaper. Among the first important publications on the subject is The Art of Painting by Claude Boutet (1739) which contains detailed instructions on how to paint draperies, flora and fauna, and most importantly,  how to choose the best colours. [1]
By the late 18th century, still-life painting reached its zenith, with Gerard van Spaendonck (1746-1822) emerging as a leading figure in the genre. His influence spurred a new wave of painters and miniature painters from northern European countries and France. 

Enamel in Germany 

In Germany, the production of enamel in the miniature form was encouraged following the reign of Frederick the Great. In order to encourage local production, he introduced restrictions to the imports of French snuff boxes, which had become an increasingly popular import. The resulting growth of industry is reflected in the production of German porcelain factories like Messien (est. 1710), and Frankenthal (1755-1799). This pair of miniatures (figs 1 & 2) have certain stylistic elements, like the leaves, that are reminiscent of porcelain designs from the Frankenthal factory. The bright colours within the leaves and fruit in these still lives also reflect a wider development in the style of enamel in the 18th century. There could be messages behind these scenes; the bird depicted three times over the pair may be a European Goldfinch, a signifier of the Passion, often depicted next to symbols of vice, here represented by the glass of wine. Still-life paintings and miniatures also found new personifications, celebrating scientific achievements of the era. They frequently featured exotic fruits and medicinal plants reflecting the period’s growing interest in the classification of botanical specimens. [2]


Fig. 2 German School mid-18th Century, Two Still-lives, depicting two birds with fruits, vegetables, flowers and a glass of wine. Enamel plaque. The Limner Company

Landscape 

Parallel to still-lifes, miniatures of pastoral scenes, landscapes and seascapes provided artists with a canvas to showcase their skill in capturing the natural world on a diminutive scale. Despite their small size, they exuded a sense of grandeur and emotional intensity, encapsulating the sublime beauty of nature. The pastoral landscape had been a recurring motif in Dutch 17th century art, depicting a harmonious relationship between humans and nature or man and God’s bounty. [3] People were often portrayed enjoying a respite from labor amidst their picturesque surroundings, reflecting a peaceful coexistence between nature and man. [4]

The revival of these Dutch themes was profoundly influenced by the themes and style of the 19th century Romantic movement. Miniature portraits, previously characterized by an emphasis on power, dignity, and subjects of seriousness, now took on a new direction dominated by emotionality, imagination and a deep connection to nature. Seascape miniatures were particularly influenced by the Romantic period’s emotional themes, particularly the concept of the memento mori. This epoch's focus on the intensity of emotion, including the fear of death, was palpable in these miniature paintings. The personable aspect of a miniature in addition to these new subjects highlight the era’s preoccupation with human vulnerability and nature’s overpowering force. A pivotal motif of Romanticism was the portrayal of an ocean storm overwhelming egocentric man, [5] symbolizing nature’s untamable force over humanity. In this context, the divine was represented by the pure force of nature in paintings of landscapes.

Fixé-sous-verre

At the forefront of this artistic movement was the fixé-sous-verre technique. Also known as the “eludoric” method, this artistic approach has been practiced in the West since antiquity. The technique involves painting on the reverse side of a piece of glass, creating a distinctive mirror-like effect due to the reversed orientation of the artwork. Unlike traditional canvas painting or painting on vellum or ivory in miniature, where artists would typically begin with broad sketches, gradually adding details, the fixé-sous-verre painters start with the finer details and work their way towards the background. [6] This, as you can imagine, required meticulous planning, as artists must envision the entire composition from start to finish, taking into account the mirror effect that occurs during the painting process.

The technique was introduced in Venice during the Middle Ages, achieving full maturity by the Renaissance, largely due to the influence of Byzantine glassmakers on the island of Murano. These Murano glassmakers subsequently emigrated to other European cities in Italy, Austria, Germany, France and the Netherlands, spreading the fixe-sous-verre technique and adapting it to new themes and styles. 

In the second half of the 18th century, Arnaud Vincent de Montpetit (1713-1800) refined the fixé-sous-verre technique, which involved creating oil paintings on fine cloth submerged in water. These paintings were then affixed to the back of an embossed glass using water-soluble glue, typically animal glue. By this point, numerous workshops drew inspiration from renowned painters like Francois Boucher, Chardin and Hubert Robert to decorate precious boxes using the fixe-sous-verre technique. These works were characterized by their meticulous craftsmanship and thematic richness, reflecting the influence of contemporary painting trends. Subjects also became bolder, not only of pastoral scenes but of still lives, landscapes or even more daring erotic scenes, seen on examples of snuff boxes. [7]

Let us now look at some of the most prominent figures in the art of painting still-life and landscape miniatures. 

Giovanni Migliara (1785-1837)

Fig. 3 Classical Landscape with Diana and her entourage, circa 1810, Fixé-sous-verre, gilt-metal mount with Alphonse Giroux trade label. Sotheby’s, December 5, 2019, Lot 329
Fig. 4 Colleoni Chapel in Bergamo, circa 1825-1830, Fixé-sous-verre. Sotheby’s, September 20, 2022.
Fig. 5 Loggia sul Lago, Fixé-sous-verre. Invaluable
Fig. 6 A glimpse of a Milanese neighbourhood, now known as the ‘Verziere’, a named derived from the market that was held here between early 18th century and 1911. Fixé-sous-verre. Invaluable.

Italian painter Giovanni Migliara initially trained in Milan under Gaspare Galliari, master scenographer and designer of La Scala and Teatro Carcano, and painter of capricci (an architectural fantasy, placing together archeological ruins and other architectural elements in fictional and fantastical combinations). Migliari later specialised in landscape painting and yet never lost his interest in set design. He continuously pushed the limits of the Venetian Veduten tradition, Italian cross-pollination cityscape/landscape paintings inspired by 17th Century Dutch artists. Vedute were reminders of personal memories, like postcards of today, pioneered by Canaletto and Guardi in the 18th century. An increasing demand for memory views in the 19th century from the Venetian bourgeoisie encouraged artist such as Migliara to paint fantastic architectural as well as neoclassical landscape miniatures.   

Christiaan van Pol (1752-1813)

Fig. 7 Still-life with flowers and an antique urn, circa 1805, fixe-sous-verre; signed lower right. Sotheby’s
Fig. 8 Still life with a bunch of grapes and a dragonfly; watercolour on paper (miniature) ; signed 'Van Pol' (lower centre). Invaluable
Fig. 9 A floral still-life with roses, parrot tulip, anemones, forget-me-nots, peonies, an iris, poppies, delphiniums, a classical vase, on a stone ledge, signed 'Van Pol' (lower right); on ivory. Sotheby’s.

Born in Berkenrode, Christiaan van Pol likely learned to draw in the tavern town known as Dorstige Kuil. It was here that he met fellow artists Simon Foke, John Greenwood, and Jan Punt, who were all associated with the Amsterdamse Tekenacademie (the practice school of draftsmanship). Pol’s formal training, however, began in Antwerp, where he specialised in “sieraad schilderen” or decorative painting. During his time in Antwerp, he met leading still-life painters of the time, Cornelis van Spaendonck, Gerard van Spaendonck and Jan Frans van Dael. Dael and Pol became close friends, traveling together to Paris in 1782 where they collaborated on creating decorative arabesques (for the Sorbonne and the castles of Bellevue, Chantilly, and Saint-Cloud) as well as painting miniature flower arrangements on snuffbox lids. In 1791, Pol even exhibited at the Salon where the incredible quality and richness of his compositions were admired. 

As the Ancien Regime came to an end, Pol joined other Dutch painters specialising in still-lifes, aligning himself with the legacy of artists like Jan van Os and Spaendonck. Like them, he sought to revive the Golden Age of Dutch painting in Pairs, heavily inspired by the works of Jan van Huysum. See beautiful examples at the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge. 

Anne Vallayer-Coster (1744-1818)
 

”She astonishes us as much as she enchants us.”
– Diderot, 1771

Fig. 10 A still-life of flowers in an urn on a stone ledge with peaches and a pineapple; signed 'Coste[r]' (lower right); Fixé-sous-verre. Christie’s, 26 November 2014
Fig. 11 Bouquet of roses, poppies and carnations in a vase on a ledge, oil on paper laid on cardboard; signed lower right.
Fig. 12 Still Life of roses, snowballs, peonies and hyacinths in a glass on a ledge; signed lower right; oil on canvas. This painting was in the collection of miniaturist Louis Cournerie (1820-1891). Sotheby’s, 14 October 2020.

Born into an artistic family; her father being a master goldsmith and her mother painting miniatures, Anne Vallayer-Coster was known for her exceptional skills in still-life and portraiture. By the end of her life, she produced numerous miniatures (17 according to Marianne Roland Michel’s catalogue raisonné of the artist, 1970). 

She received minimal training with botanical artist Madeleine Bassporte and in painting with landscapist Claude-Joseph Vernet. At only 26 years old, Vallayer-Coster was one of four women elected into the Academie Royale, where she continued to paint a broad range of subjects. [8] It wasn’t long until Queen Marie Antoinette named her Painter to the Queen in 1780, gifting her with her own quarters in the Louvre. Five years later, she received a scathing review for one of her portraits from critics at the Salon, deciding then to focus her attention entirely on still-lifes, exhibiting at the Salon until 1817. Luckily, she was able to escape the French Revolution unharmed, later even selling two flower paintings to Empress Josephine in 1804. [9] 

Intricately detailed, her miniatures showcase both her technical power and artistic sensibility. Often featuring floral arrangements, luxurious objects and sumptuous fruits, she was able to capture the gorgeous textures of her larger still life paintings on a much smaller scale. Her innate skill at painting with verisimilitude the soft skin of a peach, the delicacy of a flower’s petals and the glittering surfaces of gold and bronze is truly astounding, marking her as one of the most impressive still-life painters and miniaturists in history.

Gerard van Spaendonck (1746-1822)

Fig. 13 Tortoiseshell Box with Miniature of a Still life with Flowers; circa 1775-1800; tortoiseshell, gouache. Noordbrabants Museum, 's-Hertogenbosch.
Fig. 14 A gold-mounted miniature of a still life painted on ivory, Gerard van Spaendonck, Paris, circa 1785. Sotheby’s 26 May, 2021, Lot 46.
Fig. 15 Cornelis van Spaendonck (1756-1840). Still Life with a basket of flowers, circa 1805, Fixé-sous-verre, two colour gold mount, set with diamonds; signed lower left. Sotheby’s, 5 December 2019.

Gerard van Spaendonck is no doubt the most famous still-life miniaturist working in the 18th century. The older brother of Corenelis van Spaendonck, (Fig.15), an accomplished artist in his own right, he began his training with decorative painter Willem Jacob Herreyns in Antwerp. Shortly after his arrival to Paris from Flanders in 1769, Spaendonck attracted prestigious commissions from the newly crowned French monarch and his brother, the Comte d’Artois, appointed miniature painter to Louis XVI a mere five years later. 

In 1780, he became an official member of the Academie des Beaux-Arts where he mentored future botanical pioneers Pierre-Joseph Redoute (1759-1840) and Henriette Vincent (1786-1834). A loved professor, devoted scholar and popular painter, he was awarded the Legion d’Honneur by Napoleon Bonaparte in 1804. 

Spaendonck’s extensive book on botanicals Fleurs Dessinees d’Apres Nature (1801) comprises numerous engravings for students of floral painting, and has become one of the most treasured books on floral art to this day. This careful study of botanicals is evident in Spaendonck’s still-life paintings. The finesse of Spaendonck’s brushwork is even more evident in his miniatures, where his striking textural contrasts and brilliance of colours are beautifully displayed. 

[1] The art of painting in miniature : teaching the speedy and perfect acquisition of that art without a master : by rules so easy, and in method so natural as to render this charming accomplishment universally attainable ... translated from the original French. Claude Boutet, 35.
[2]  Miniature Painting in Eighteenth-Century England: The Case of William Pether (1739–1821)
[3]  19th Century Miniature Landscape and Seascapes - Kathleen C. Paul 2017
[4]  Dutch painters began to produce a new view, one of the here and now – the world as experienced by real people. Painting in the Dutch Golden Age, National Gallery of Art, 2007
[5]  19th Century Miniature Landscape and Seascapes - Kathleen C. Paul 2017
[6]  Le fixé sous verre: l’art de la peinture inversée, La Magazine de Proantic, 2014
[7] Bonhams, London, 21 November 2012, lot 25.
[8] Some have suggested Alexander Roslin, Swedish painter who worked for aristocratic families supported her candidacy and facilitated her introduction to Marie Antoinette. Anne Vallayer-Coster, Portrait of a Violinist, Art Bulletin of Nationalmuseum, Stockholm. See Roslin’s portrait of Anna Vallayer-Coster at Crocker Art Museum, 2016.50
[9] A still life by Anne Vallayer-Coster that was lost to scholars for two centuries: ‘The work she considered her finest’, Christie’s, 2023

“Our native paintresses, as the old-fashioned art critics and compilers of biographical dictionaries quaint them, have left but faintly impressed footprints on the sands of time. They do not glitter in the splendour of renown, like their sisters of the pen or of the buskin.” 


— Ellen Creathorne Clayton, English Female Artists, 1876 —


Tracing the life stories of female painters from the 16th to even the 19th century is often rather challenging. Common hindrances include a scarcity of primary sources and the consequences of marriage, where women not only risked losing the opportunity and capability to work but also faced the potential overshadowing of their contributions by their husbands’ personal, economic or even artistic identities. In celebration of Women’s History Month, this blog aims to spotlight the often-overlooked contributions of women in the realm of portrait miniatures, shedding light on just a few women and their legacy in the world of art. Despite the remarkable talents of these women miniaturists, their achievements have been obscured by the overall historical neglect of women artists. While efforts to reclaim the importance of female artists through exhibitions and scholarly interest are underway, the scarcity of documentation on their lives and oeuvres poses a significant challenge in rewriting history. The everlastingness of a reputation hinges on the survival and accessibility of their artworks, as well as subjective assessments of their value. A reluctance persists even today in acknowledging the existence of other women painters, possibly because their existence runs counter to preconceptions of early modern society. [1] 

Levina Teerlinc (1510s-1576) 


Fig. 1. Self Portrait, Simon Bening (c.1483-1561), 1558 © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Written in gold on a red background is an inscription; “"Simon Bennik, the son of Alexander, painted this himself at the age of 75 in 1558."
Fig. 2. Princess Elizabeth Tudor, 1550-51 © Royal Collection, Windsor
Fig. 3. An Elizabethan Maundy, c.1560 - Private Collection 

Levina Teerlinc was one of the most important Renaissance miniaturists who played a crucial role at the English court between Hans Holbein the Younger and Nicholas Hilliard. Born in Bruges, Teerlinc was one of five daughters of Simon Bening, a renowned Flemish illuminator and miniaturist (considered one of the last major artists in the Netherlandish tradition), and his first wife Catherine Stroo. Levina first arrived in England in 1546, appointed as the replacement limner for Lucas Hornelbolt, [2] the ‘King’s Painter’ and court miniaturist who had died two years prior. Remarkably, Henry VIII took the unprecedented step of naming Teerlinc as the ‘King’s Paintrix’, making her the first woman in Europe to hold an official artistic position at the English court. Not only was this title a monumental achievement in itself, but Teerlinc achieved considerable financial success as the court painter, surpassing even Holbein’s earnings during his tenure. Beyond her role as a court artist, Teerlinc gained prestige by serving as a gentlewoman for Mary I and as a gentlewoman of the privy chamber for Elizabeth I, recruited to the court of Henry VIII by his last wife, Katherine Parr (perhaps at the instigation of her sister Anne Herbert).

Attributing works to Teerlinc with certainty remains challenging due to the fact that she did not sign a large majority of her works. Lack of documentation has led art historians to disagree on attributions, with some suggesting that, as a gentlewoman at court, her involvement in painting may have been minimal.  Mr. Foster (British Miniature Painters, p. 12) suggests that many of her miniatures were destroyed in the fire at Whitehall, and also that some of them are concealed under the name of Holbein. [3]

One of the most interesting discourses has revolved around Teerlinc’s relationship with Nicholas Hilliard. Both Roy Strong and Jim Murrell, experts in the field of 16th-century miniatures, suggest that Teerlinc actually taught Hilliard the art of limning. [4] It remains uncertain whether Teerlinc ever even crossed paths with Nicholas Hilliard, let alone collaborated with him. However, scholars have pointed to Hilliard’s initial miniature of Elizabeth, dated 1572, a period during which Teerlinc served at the queen’s court. Some have argued that the Ghent-Bruges school, where Teerlinc received early training, was inherently characterized by collaboration, and as such the ethos from this collaborative tradition stayed with Teerlinc’s entire life.

Sofonisba Anguissola (c.1531-1625)

Fig. 4. Miniature Self Portrait, c.1556 © Museum of Fine Arts Boston

In the cinquencento, Sofonisba Anguissola’s self-assurance and fearlessness as a female artist were unprecedented and impressive for the time. Rather than adhering to established conventions, she continuously challenged them, distinguishing herself by exploring innovative styles of portraiture, breaking gender barriers in the male-dominated art world. 

Born into a minor impoverished nobility in Cremona, Italy, Sofonisba’s career afforded her an  extraordinary trajectory, ultimately becoming a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Spain, Elizabeth de Valois. Her father, Amilcare Anguissola, recognised her artistic talents early on and encouraged her and her sisters to receive a quality education in the arts and sciences. At 14, she became a student of Bernardino Campi, a prominent painter in Cremona, before moving to Milan to study with Bernardino Gatti. At the young age of 26, she received an invitation to join the influential court of Philip II as a painter, marking the beginning of her international career.



Fig. 5. Portrait of a girl from a noble family- last sold Christie’s January 2019
Fig. 6. Self portrait, c.1556, oil on panel © Fondation Custodia, Collection Frits Lugt, Paris. 

Her self portraits stand out as the most captivating facets of her body of work. The most famous (for good reason) now housed at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and painted around 1556, showcases her artistic prowess [fig. 8]. It is exceptional in terms of composition and meticulous technique. Dressed in the black attire that characterizes most of her self portraits, Anguissola sits against a dark green background, wielding a shield with a complex monogram – possibly containing her family motto or a reference to her father, Amilcare. [5] The Latin inscription around the rim of the medallion reads, 

“The maiden Sofonisba Anguissola, depicted by her own hand, from a mirror, at Cremona”. 

This miniature not only showcases Anguissola’s meticulous technique but also reflects her daring wit, and nonchalance. This self portrait, positioned almost as a manifesto, amplifies Anguissola’s strength as a revolutionary female artist, one who positioned herself at the same level as her male counterparts, if not higher. [6]

Susannah-Penelope Rosse (née Gibson) (1652-1700)

Fig. 7. Portrait miniature of a Gentleman, thought to be Edward Montagu, 1st Earl of Sandwich (1625-1672), c.1674 - The Limner Company

British painter Susannah-Penelope Rosse had an impressive lineage as the daughter of Richard Gibson, known as ‘Dwarf Gibson’. A British miniature painter and court dwarf, her father held his position during the reigns of Charles I, Charles II and William III. He also instructed the Princesses Mary and Anne, daughters of the Duke of York, in drawing. [7]

Growing up in London, Susannah-Penelope was intimately connected with the artistic milieu, forming a lasting friendship with the highly esteemed artist Samuel Cooper. In addition to her admiration for Cooper, Rosse showcased her talent by reproducing some of Mary Beale’s portraits into miniatures, a notable example being a portrait of the poet Elizabeth Singer Rowe. She painted numerous members of the court of Charles II, attaining such popularity that, in a remarkable incident in 1682, she shared a sitting with the eminent Sir Godfrey Kneller for a portrait of the ambassador from Morrocco. [8]

Much akin to the collaborative endeavours of Charles and Mary Beale, Susannah-Penelope and her husband Michael Rosse constituted a formidable professional team. Michael, raised in Covent Garden near the Beales, pursued a career as a jeweller to the crown, possibly framing many of his wife’s exquisite miniatures. 


Fig. 8. Portrait of a Lady, called Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, c.1690-95 © The Royal Collection

In the sale of Michael Rosse's collection of art in 1723, over 20 years after her death, numerous original works by Cooper and acknowledged copies of Cooper by Susannah-Penelope were found. The inclusion of unfinished works by Cooper allowed her to closely study his technique. According to George Vertue, she initially learned her craft from her father but was captivated by Cooper's artistry, dedicating herself to studying and emulating his limnings to perfection.

Rosalba Carriera (1673-1757)

Fig. 9. Portrait miniature of a Gentleman wearing armour breastplate and blue cloak, holding the Coronation Medal of George I, c.1715 - The Limner Company

Rosalba Carriera, a legendary figure and trailblazer, emerged as one of the foremost European portrait painters during the first half of the 1700s. Born to a clerk and a lace maker, she potentially learned the craft of lace-making from her mother. A declining industry, Carriera embarked on a more profitable artistic venture in Venice, adorning snuff boxes for tourists. 

By the age of 25, Rosalba earned special membership in the Academy of St Luke in Rome, being made an ‘accademico di merito’, (a title reserved for non-Roman painters), fuelled by the success of her initial miniatures and phenomenal pastel works. [9] Her exceptional talent attracted numerous foreign courts and clients, prompting some to travel specifically to Venice just for a sitting. Notably, Prince Frederick Augustus II of Saxony, later King Augustus III of Poland, sat for her in 1713, amassing a substantial collection of over 100 pastels in Dresden (to this day the largest collection of Rosalba pastels).

In 1720, encouraged by collector Pierre Crozat, she left for Paris, where her realism [10] and soft colors, integrated into the Rococo style, captivated the French. In less than one year, she received 36 commissions, producing over 50 portraits, among them one for Louis XV as a child. [11] She began to interact with numerous French artists, notably Antoine Watteau, who honoured her with a request for one of her works. [12] Her influence significantly contributed to shaping the prevailing tastes in 18th-century France, in its graceful forms, delicate colouring and vaporous effects, so often poetic in origin. During a 6-month stint in Vienna in 1730, Rosalba found patronage in Holy Roman Emperor Charles VI, with the empress becoming her pupil as a result.


Fig. 10. Self-Portrait as 'Innocence', c.1705-1757 © The Royal Collection
Fig. 11. Rinaldo and Armida - last sold Chiswick Auctions December 2021
Fig. 12. Portrait of a Man, c.1710 © The Metropolitan Museum of Art

It is widely regarded that Carriera developed the art of painting miniatures on ivory, in place of the conventional vellum (animal skin). Her innovative technique, known as ‘fondelli’, involved watercolour on ivory, mimicking the delicate allure and softness of her pastels. Unlike more traditional methods, she painted miniatures with brushes and strokes rather than with a needle, one point at a time. [13]

At only 30 years old, she had established a successful studio for miniature portraits and mythological scenes on ivory. Despite her international acclaim, her eyesight began to deteriorate in the 1740s, and by the 1750s, she had almost completely lost her sight. Unmarried, she passed away at 84, leaving an estate ten times larger than the renowned Venetian painter of the time, Canaletto.

Penelope Carwardine (1730-1801)


Fig. 13. Portrait of a Lady looking in a mirror - Karen Taylor Fine Art
Fig. 14. A Lady, wearing white chemise - last sold Bonhams November 2014
Fig. 15. Portrait of a Lady - Rosebery’s London, previously in private collection

Penelope Carwardine was one of eight children born to John Carwardine and Anne Bullock. Her mother was also a miniature painter, and together, they showcased their miniatures at the Incorporated Society of Artists in London in 1761 and 1762 under the name Mrs Thomas Carwardine (Anne). 

The family faced financial challenges due to John Carwardine’s mismanagement of the family estates, and Penelope turned to miniature painting as a means to support her family. She exhibited her work at the Society of Artists, marking her independence foray into the art scene. Some scholars have suggested suggest that she ceased her artistic pursuits after marrying James Butler in 1763. Despite this claim, evidence from the Society of Artists indicates that some of her works were exhibited as late as 1772. [14]

According to Dictionary of National Biography and other historical sources, she received instruction in miniature painting from Ozias Humphry, [15] mastering the art by 1754. However, there is much discrepancy in timeliness, as Humphry was not born until 1742. This raises the question and possibility that historical sources may have conflated details, and it could be that Humphry was actually a pupil of Carwardine. Nevertheless, she aligned herself with the Modest School of English miniaturists, [16] a group that included notable artists such as Peter Paul Lens and Gervase Spencer.

Carwardine enjoyed a close friendship with both Sir Joshua Reynolds and Frances Reynolds, with Joshua Reynolds even painting a portrait of one of her sisters as a gift. Many of her miniatures remained within her family’s possession until 1887, along with three portraits of Carwardine: one by Thomas Bardwell in 1750, another by a Chinese artist around 1756, and the third by George Romney in circa 1790.

Anne Mee (née Foldsone) (1770-1851)

Fig. 16. Lady Isabel Anne Dashwood (1772-1858), c.1793 - last sold Chiswick Auctions, March 2020

Anne Mee hailed from a family with financial constraints, and financial worries would endure throughout her life. Anne’s father, John Folstone, a copyist of pictures, [17] exhibited at the Society of Artists of Great Britain from 1769-70 and at the Royal Academy from 1771 to 1783, specialising in small portraits, often executed at the sitter’s location. 

Anne’s father passed away early in her life, leaving her as the eldest among eight siblings, and she took-up painting professionally to support her large family. Horace Walpole highlighted Anne’s familial responsibilities, noting that she worked incessantly to sustain her mother and eight siblings. He wrote in a letter, 

“I have got a solution of Miss Foldsone: she has a mother and eight brothers and sisters, who make her work incessantly to maintain them, and who reckon it loss of time to them, if she finishes any pictures that are paid for beforehand—That however is so very uncommon that I should not think the family would be much the richer. I do know that Lord Carlisle paid for the portraits of his children last July and cannot get them from her-at that rate I may see you before your pictures!” [18]


Fig. 17. Lady Louisa Atherley (1765-1851), c.1795 - last sold Olympia Auctions, November 2023
Fig. 18. Portrait miniature of a child, c.1795 - The Limner Company 

Despite financial hardships, Anne received an education at Madame Pomier’s school in Bloomsbury. Displaying remarkable talent from a young age, she commenced her artistic journey at the age of 12, financed and guided by the tutelage of George Romney. Her talent was evident, and during the early 1790s, she worked at Windsor Castle under the patronage of the Prince of Wales, later George IV. Her miniatures reflected influences from artists in the Prince’s circle, notably Richard Cosway. The then Prince Regent employed Anne to paint portraits of fashionable beauties, many of which found a place at Windsor. Some of her portraits were engraved for publications like the Court Magazine and La Belle Assemblée. In 1812, she initiated a serial publication, the Gallery of Beauties of the Court of George III, which featured her own portrait at the forefront, although only one issue was released. Her portraits are often characterised by large eyes, and by 1804 she was able to ask as much as 40 guineas for a miniature.

Anne Mee’s significance lies in being one of the few professional female miniaturists in the early 19th century. Even after her marriage to Irish barrister Joseph Mee, she defied the norm of many female artists who ceased working post-marriage. However, her husband imposed restrictions, allowing her to paint only ladies without the presence of gentlemen during sittings, as noted by diarist Joseph Farington.

Madeleine Pauline Augustin (née du Cruet de Barailhon) (1781-1865)

Fig. 19. Portrait miniature artist’s brother, Alexandre Nicolas Ducruet (1788-1858), seated reading next to a fireplace; circa 1830 - previously with The Limner Company. The work shown here, datable from the sitter’s costume as circa 1830, can be recognised as Alexandre by his distinct facial hair. Pauline was incredibly fond of her brother, spending a lot of time together at Pauline’s country estate Courtoiseau, painting miniatures of their entourage. 

From the 16th to the 19th century, many painters’ wives engaged in miniature painting, skillfully replicating their husbands’ paintings in smaller formats, as exemplified by Madeleine Pauline Augustin.

Born in Paris in 1781, she was the daughter of Germain du Cruet, Chevalier de Barailhon, one of the numerous secretaries to King Louis XVI. Although her early education is unclear, it is believed that she studied painting with her godmother, the highly recognized 18th-century still life painter, Anne Valleyer-Coster. It was unusual in this period for women to begin their career studying with another female artist – usually a male member of the family gave instruction. In this case, her godmother must have been a source of inspiration both artistically and professionally.


Fig. 20. Portrait of a Man, possibly a member of the Gounod family, c.1835, - last sold Sotheby’s April 2015
Fig. 21. Portrait of a Woman, 1835 © Galeries les Portraits en Miniature
Fig. 22. Portrait of a Woman - Private Collection. 

In the 1790s, Pauline entered the studio of renowned miniature painter and (later in 1814) Premier Peintre of Miniatures to Louis XVIII, Jean-Baptiste Jacques Augustin. Augustin had gained tremendous notability for establishing a drawing academy that nurtured talented miniaturists, helping solidify his reputation as one of the most influential miniaturists of the late 18th century. Their relationship deepened, and in 1800, Pauline and Augustin married in Fussyny where her family had property. She was not only quickly regarded as her husband’s best pupil but was considered an important collaborator and artistic partner. Her ability to adopt her husband’s style to such a meticulous extent has made it so it is often impossible to distinguish her works from his.

Pauline was highly regarded in the Paris Salons where she started exhibiting in 1822 with miniature portraits of her husband and painter friends such as Merry-Joseph Blondel and Abel de Pujol. In 1824, she exhibited a portrait of Belgian violinist Lambert Massard which earned her a medal of the second class. She continued to exhibit regularly in the Paris Salons of 1827, 1831, 1834, 1835 and 1838. It was during this time, not much longer after her husbands’ death, that she retired to Arras until her death in 1865, surviving her husband by almost three decades. Pauline’s miniature portraits are now exhibited all over the world, from the Metropolitan Museum in New York to several European collections.

Anne Langton (1804-1893)

Fig. 23. Martha Walsh (née Bellingham), 1832 - The Limner Company. Although the majority of her extant portrait miniatures portray her immediate family, the sitter here can be identified as Martha Bellingham, and may have represented an important paid commission for Langton. The portrait here may have been a commission to celebrate the marriage of Martha and General Walsh, an acquaintance of Langton’s brother.

Born in England, the artist Anne Langton (1804-1893) is best known for her time in Canada, where she moved with her family in 1837. The Langtons settled on the frontier in Upper Canada, present day Ontario, where Anne recorded both the difficult and joyous times (in her drawings and written journals) within a close-knit pioneer community. [19]

At Anne’s birth, her prosperity and genteel status appeared permanent. Her father, Thomas Langton, had established himself in the hemp and flax trade and with the fortune he acquired, purchased Blythe Hall, near Ormskirk. It is within this exquisite mansion that Anne was raised. In 1815, when Anne was eleven, the family took off on a tour of the cultural centres of Europe to enhance their children’s education and awareness. Yet the collapse of the family business in 1821 abruptly ended the Langton family’s ardent pursuit of culture and learning. Blythe Hall was hastily sold, and the family moved to a small house in Liverpool, where Anne’s marriageable years were steeped in escalating poverty. Throughout the 1820’s and 1830’s, Langton grew familiar with the use of watercolour on ivory, the medium through which she created her miniature portraits. She had been introduced to this technique in Paris, and had continued to receive training under Thomas Hargreaves, R.A, a notable miniaturist working in Liverpool. Despite adversity, Anne incessantly devoted herself to art, providing testimony to her claim as an artist in her own right. 


Fig. 24. Self Portrait, 1827 © Image from Archives of Ontario, REF F 1077-7-1-0-19
Fig. 25. Self Portrait, 1833 © Image from Archives of Ontario, REF F 1077-7-1-0-2
Fig. 26. Self Portrait, 1840 © Image from Archives of Ontario, REF F 1077-7-1-0-17

In 1950, one of her Canadian nephews, H. H. Langton, published an edited collection of Anne’s letters to her family and friends back in England. A Gentlewoman in Upper Canada exposes in great detail Anne’s experiences as a settler in North America, bringing her art into a broader social context. As a single woman both in England and in Canada, her letters reveal her incredible ambition and how she negotiated her roles as a gentlewoman, a colonial settler, a devoted daughter and aunt, and of course, a brilliant artist. [20] As Anne herself stated, her journals and sketches gave ‘some sort of a notion what this world of ours is like.’ [21]

Sarah Goodridge  (1788-1853)

Fig. 27. ‘Beauty Revealed’, 1828 © The Metropolitan Museum of Art

To conclude this discussion on remarkable female miniaturists, let’s delve into the story of Sarah Goodridge, a fabulous woman who displayed extraordinary courage through her self portrait, now known as ‘Beauty Revealed’. 

Raised as one of nine children on a Massachusetts farm, Sarah was primarily self-taught, copying pictures on her mother’s kitchen floor. [22] Seeking to sustain herself as an artist, she moved to Boston in 1820 with her sister, immersing herself in the city’s artistic milieu, studying under leading American portraitist Gilbert Stuart. Her early sketches, created on birch bark due to a lack of resources for paper, showcased her nascent talent. She gained tremendous popularity, and transitioned to specializing in ivory, producing up to three portrait miniatures weekly. Through her commissions, she supported herself but also provided for her aging mother back home. By 1820, Sarah had established her own studio, making a successful career as an unmarried female artist, defying social expectations. 


Fig. 28. Self Portrait, 1830 © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

Sarah’s love life would inspire one of the most iconic self portraits ever created. A romantic relationship blossomed between Sarah and one of her sitters, a prominent lawyer and politician, Daniel Webster. This relationship was, however, complicated as Webster had an existing marriage and family. Their connection endured for years, with Sarah creating multiple portraits of her lover, tirelessly exchanging letters (she preserved his letters to her, while he, more mindful of his reputation, destroyed hers.)

Following the death of Webster’s first wife in 1828, Sarah most likely hoped for a change in their relationship. In a bold move, she painted a unique miniature, deviating from the prevalent trend of exchanging lover’s eyes or lips in miniatures. Instead, she presented an intimate yet audacious glimpse of her bared breasts, perhaps an allusion to her heart as well. [23] Daniel, known as ‘Black Dan’, had political and societal ambitions, and as such wanted to marry a woman of high advantage and status as opposed to an artist, marrying Caroline LeRoy in 1829. Despite Sarah’s unrequited love (at least legally), Daniel’s feelings for the young artist were profound. After his death in 1852, his children discovered Sarah’s suggestive miniature in his pocket, perhaps proof of his deep affections towards her all along. 

[1] Linda Nochlin, Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?

[2] Hornebolt’s daughter, Susannah Hornebolt, was also an exquisite illuminator. Albrecht Durer in meeting her father noted in his diary “Master Gerard, illuminator, has a young daughter about eighteen years of age; her name is Susannah; she had made a coloured drawing of Our Saviour, for which I gave her a florin; it is wonderful that a female should be able to do such work.” Ellen C. Clayton, English Female Artists, pg 6

[3] Simone Bergmans. “The Miniatures of Levina Teerling.” The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs 64, no. 374 (1934): 232–36. pg 232

[4] Ibid.,

[5] Art historian Patrizia Costa suggests the monogram might contain a coded family motto. 

[6] Unfolding the Overlapping Bodies: An Analysis of Sofonisba Anguissola’s Self- Portrait Miniature in Boston as a Feminist Manifesto, pg 65

[7] Ellen C. Clayton, English Female Artists, pg 57

[8] Ibid.,

[9] The connoisseur Christopher Cole, secretary to Joseph Smith, English consul to Venice, introduced her to the medium of pastel in 1703. 

[10] Rosalba Carriera. “A Young Lady with a Parrot, c. 1730.” Art Institute of Chicago Museum Studies 26, no. 1 (2000): 30–93. pg 8. She enhanced but never obscured the actual appearance of her sitters. In contrast, her allegorical types are often quite generalized. 

[11] Sani, Bernardina. “Rosalba Carriera’s ‘Young Lady with a Parrot.’” Art Institute of Chicago Museum Studies 17, no. 1 (1991): 75–95. pg 75

[12] Ibid.,

[13] In her pastels as well, she was considered by her contemporaries as innovative in her technique. She was the first to soften figures with extensive stumping or rubbing with a cloth, which later evolved into her “dry-brush” technique by dragging the flat side of her chalk lightly over a contrasting color to suggest diaphanous materials. Rosalba Carriera. “A Young Lady with a Parrot, c. 1730.” Art Institute of Chicago Museum Studies 26, no. 1 (2000): 30–93. pg 8

[14] Algernon Graves, The Society of artists of Great Britain, 1760-1791; the Free society of artists, 1761-1783 ; a complete dictionary of contributors and their work from the foundation of the societies to 1791, pg 53

[15] Anderson galleries, The art collections of the late Viscount Leverhulme, part two, paintings, pg 178

[16] Perfect Likeness : European and AMerican Portrait Minaitures from the Cincinnati Art Museum, pg 115

[17] Daphne Foskett, Miniatures, Dictionary and Guide, 38

[18] The Letter was sent in 1791 to Miss Berry, All Things Georgian, Anne Mee, Sarah Murden, 2015

[19] Errington, J. (2009). [Review of the book A Gentlewoman in Upper Canada: The Journals, Letters, and Art of Anne Langton]. The Canadian Historical Review 90(3), 552-553

[20] http://www.biographi.ca/en/bio/langton_anne_12E.html [accessed 07/10/2020]

[21] A Gentlewoman in Upper Canada: The Journals, Letters and Art of Anne Langton (review), Katherine M.J. McKenna [accessed 07/10/2020]

[22] According to the artist's sister Eliza, who also became a miniature painter, Sarah began studying art by reading a book on drawing and painting. https://collections.mfa.org/objects/31073

[23] Barratt, Carrie Rebora, and Lori Zabar (2010), American Portrait Miniatures in The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Portrait miniatures’ highly detailed, jewel-like quality and portability, made for personal purposes both secret and acknowledged, gives them an almost incomparable intimate quality. 18th-century portrait miniatures, often housing relics like hair in a glazed reverse to the locket, are commonly perceived as private mementos, reflecting sentiments of love and remembrance. Despite the inclination to view portrait miniatures as exclusively private, they were, in fact, external signs of social status and expressions of feelings, loyalty, or propaganda. As objects exchanged between individuals, they played a crucial role in the culture of memory, [1] evident in ceremonial contexts of courtship and dynastic representation. It was an object that was given and received, carried and manipulated, evoking a social bond between wearer and object. However, amidst the narratives of political intrigue, familial and romantic love, one crucial aspect often overlooked is the profound influence of female friendships within the market of portrait miniatures. Contrary to assumptions, not all owners were entangled in romantic complications; rather, the changing fashion styles and advancements in enamel techniques [2] elevated the culture of visibility and value of miniatures.

Women, the primary owners and wearers of portrait miniatures, fueled a vast market of luxury goods, openly showcasing precious tokens as jewellery, including bracelets, necklaces, pendants, or prominently displayed on the body in completely other ways. [3] A rare 18th-century example of such bracelets (Fig. 1), painted by Arnaud Vincent de Montpetit in fixé-sous-verre [4] (fixed underglass), can be seen below. The focus here, however, is not on jewellery, an already highly researched topic which most often revolves around notions of romanticism or intimacy, and most often gifted by men. Instead, my attention will focus on female accessories, namely Étui or Nécessaire, lace-making Shuttles, and Carnet-de-bals. Excluding snuff boxes, traditionally associated with betrothal, weddings or political gifts, our focus narrows to gifts often exchanged between women.


Fig 1. Arnaud Vincent de Monpetit (1713-1800), A Lady, wearing a red gown trimmed with gold, a gold-striped gauze veil in her powdered hair, Fixé-sous-verre, set into a gold bracelet clasp with pearl strand bracelet, the reverse of the clasp with four goldsmith’s marks, The Limner Company

Women seized opportunities to commission functional luxury objects with or without the incorporation of portrait miniatures of their closest female friends. Within the aristocracy, a class whose social relations relied heavily on visibility and publicity, inseparable friendships inhabited a more public arena than friendships within the bourgeoisie. [5] These objects became badges of sentiment, and the trend of exchanging accessories became the means of creating value and empowering female relationships. There has surprisingly been little to no scholarship on these fascinating objects, referred to as mere examples of female domestic social culture or simply alternative ways miniatures were set. However, material culture deeply informed and expressed female friendships, and helped create gendered and stratified social spaces and relationships. [6]


Fig 2. The most common adornment was oval medallions, most often with coats of arms but also including scenes with physiological connotations. This beautiful knotting shuttle by Jean-Joseph Barrière (1772), now in the Wallace Collection, is decorated with oval medallions of chased gold bagpipes, arrows and torches as well as a medallion of a girl with a dancing dog being watched by two boys. Embedded within a feminine accessory of luxury and pleasure, the portrayal is a reminder of her being watched.

Shuttles
The art of knotting or the creation of ornamental strings emerged as a prominent practice among upper-class women. The knotting process involved the use of a specialised tool, the knotting shuttle, allowing the user to wind thread gradually, transforming it into long strings of decorative knots. Silk thread or cord, wrapped around the shuttle, was unwound as needed to create decorative braids, forming patterns suitable for stitching onto clothing or other items. This intricate craft became a staple of the leisure activities of affluent women, who dedicated hours to meticulously crafting delicate knots with exquisitely adorned shuttles. Knotting shuttles themselves were objects of luxury, crafted from expensive materials such as tortoiseshell, crystal, mother-of-pearl, and silver. Some, like the exceptional examples below, even featured gold and delicate enamel work, amplifying the status of the woman who owned them. Despite the ornamental nature of surviving examples, adorned with landscapes or scenes of cherubs and shepherdesses rather than portrait miniatures, I use them as a starting point to explore the gift-giving market of luxury goods among women. [7]


Fig. 3 Jean-Étienne Liotard (1702-1789), Archduchess Marie Antoinette of Austria (1755-1792), at age seven, holding a netting shuttle, 1762, watercolour and pastel, Musée d’Art d’Histoire de Genève

The widespread popularity of knotting during the 17th and 18th centuries positioned it as a prevalent subject in women’s portraiture from that era. More than a mere craft, knotting became a symbol of femininity and domesticity. Jean-Etienne Liotard’s portrait of Marie Antoinette (Fig. 3) in 1762 as well as Jean-Marc Nattier’s portrait of Madame Adelaide de France (Fig. 4) showcase women using a knotting shuttle, reflecting their gendered roles alongside their noble status. During this period, the notion of women returning to the private sphere was promoted; the ‘virtuous woman’ becoming synonymous with the ‘domestic woman’, regardless of her social ranking. [8] The integration of knotting shuttles into larger female portrait paintings therefore added a layer of political hype to the artwork. However, this unique approach allowed the model to resonate with the craft, transforming the shuttle into a more revealing object within the overall composition. Depictions of women with shuttles testify to the personal and special significance or function of these objects. This can be compared to portraits of women wearing portrait miniatures of their husbands, placing them forward as part of their apparel, suggesting their allegiance both to fashion and spouse. [9] A portrait of Elizabeth de la Vallée de la Roche by Michel Pierre Hubert Descours (Fig. 5), for example, shows her holding a knotting shuttle in her right hand, tightly holding its string with her left, in which she wears a portrait miniature bracelet of her husband. The portrait is a socio-political statement, underlining her role as domestic and as her husband’s biggest support.


Fig. 4 Jean-Marc Nattier (1685-1766), Portrait of Madame Adélaïde de France Tying Knots, 1756, oil on canvas, Versailles
Fig. 5 Michel Pierre Hubert Descours (1741-1814), Portrait of Elizabeth de la Vallée de la Roche, 1771, The Bowes Museum

Though there may not be abundant evidence of women gifting knotting shuttles, letters and accounts from that era do mention the popularity of knotting and the exchanges of related items as gifts among women of the upper class. Jill Rappoport’s extensive book ‘Giving Women: Alliance and Exchange in Victorian Culture’ argues the importance of gift-giving in this period as a means to construct a woman’s female social network. In the act of creating and presenting these opulent objects, women ingeniously formed alliances that were built through the exchange of gifts. [10]

Étui
An Étui, more commonly known as a Nécessaire (Necessary in English), served as a compact repository for personal grooming items, including items such as a mirror, tweezers, an ear spoon, nail file, scissors, fruit knife, and scented perfume bottles. This pocket-sized assistant played a pivotal role in a well-born woman’s toilette, equipped with all the tools necessary for attending to aspects of domestic and social life. Despite a lack of scholarly attention on the commissioning and gifting of étui, recurring inscriptions strongly indicate their association with female friendship. Perhaps akin to the camaraderie observed when women collectively visit the bathroom today, these beautiful functional objects served as discreet gestures of solidarity and friendship.


Fig. 6 Étui, French box, Miniature by Gerard van Spaendonck, circa 1766, Fitzwilliam Museum
Fig. 7 Étui, enamel on copper with gilt metal mounts; oval in section with tapering sides, decorated in colours with four pastoral vignettes on a pink ground, circa 1760s, English style, Fitzwilliam Museum

An 18th-century étui (Fig. 6), illustrated with a miniature of a two-handled stone vase carved with a cherub, containing flowers including roses, hyacinth, auricula and morning glory, next to a nest of leaves containing three eggs, all on a marble slab, exemplifies the intricate craftsmanship of these items. On either side of the hinged lid is an inscription bearing the words “Necesair” and “D’amitié”.  The gold openwork inscription cleverly plays with words, translating to  “Nécessaire (as in the object) of Friendship” or a “Necessary Friendship”, suggesting the significance of these étui as tokens of companionship among women. Similarly, in the Isabella Gardner Museum, an etui (Fig. 8) bears the inscription “Souvenir D'Amitié”, (Memory of Friendship) reinforcing again the notion that these ornate yet functional accessories were often exchanged as meaningful gifts between women. 


Fig. 8 Étui, Paper with silver, brass, and mother-of-pearl veneer, late 18th Century, French, Isabella Gardner Museum

In the British Museum, an 18th-century enamelled étui vertical box adorned with flowers features portraits of a young woman and man, likely siblings rather than romantic partners. This particular example presents a challenge in determining the gift giver. The étui has not been evidenced in betrothal gift-giving culture, therefore my own speculation is that it may have been owned by the mother and/or given to her daughter, making the étui a gift representing the next chapter of a woman in womanhood.


Fig. 9 Etui, enamel bust of a young man and woman; flowers on lid, 18th Century, The British Museum

Carnet-de-Bal 
This brings us to the most common female accessory exchanged by and to women, which best exemplifies the notion of Women wearing Women; the carnet-de-bal. 

Originating in early 18th-century Europe, particularly in Paris, the powerhouse hub of luxury goods production, the carnet-de-bal epitomised the pinnacle of collaborative luxury craftsmanship, featuring brilliant enamelling, intricate gold inscriptions and jewels. Often referred to as Souvenir, it emerged as a quintessential upper-class female accessory exchanged among women during the 18th century. The carnet-de-bal, more commonly known as the Dance Card in English, held both practical and symbolic significance, embodying both elegance and functionality. It was essentially a thin rectangular box with a hinged lid which could seamlessly fit ivory sheets and a stylus for writing. Roger Hourant’s research on the use of carnet-de-bal sheds light on its practical significance, documenting various dances and the etiquette surrounding invitations. The ivory tablets within the carnets were used by single ladies to meticulously record the order of the evening’s dances and promised partners, serving as a cherished mementos of social engagements and camaraderie. 


Fig. 10 Carnet-de-Bal, with built-in clock, gold/enamel with diamonds, France, circa 1830. Provenance: Fondation Napoleon

An exceptional example of this artistry is a carnet adorned with an integrated watch, (Fig. 10) a rarity among dance card cases. This particular piece, once part of the Foundation Napoleon collection, boasts blue engine-turned enamel, an oval ivory miniature portrait surrounded by rose-cut diamonds, and a watch with an oval form movement and cylinder escapement. The inscriptions “Souvenir” on the front and “d’Amitié” on the back, both completely set with diamonds, elevate this piece to an extraordinary level of craftsmanship but more importantly exemplifies the epitome of luxury offerings in aristocratic society.


Fig. 11 Souvenir, gold, diamonds, pearls, enamel and ivory, French, 1776-7, Metropolitan Museum of Art

Other luxurious examples of carnet-de-bals, such as the one housed in the Metropolitan Museum in New York (Fig. 11) epitomise opulence with their gold construction, diamond-studded inscriptions and exquisite enamel work. Although the identity of the portrayed woman and artist remains unknown, the lavishness of such gifts suggests their esteemed value and significance within upper class female social circles. Other more common and less opulent examples which feature miniatures, by artists such as C. de Roy, Nadine Vallin and Louis Marie Sicardi, [11] further underscore the artistry and allure of these unique treasures, which captivated the hearts of recipients and collectors alike. 


Fig. 12 Souvenir, Miniature attributed to Louis Marie Sicardi, 1770, gold, tortoiseshell, ivory, Metropolitan Museum
Fig. 13 Carnet-de-bal with miniatures of an unknown lady, circa 1790-95, enamel, gold, diamonds, ivory, Royal Collection
Fig. 14 Carnet-de-bal, miniature by C. de Roy, 1773-4, gold, ivory, Metropolitan Museum
Fig. 15 Souvenir, Miniature by Nadine Wallin (active 1787-1813), circa 1789, gold, lacquer, ivory, Metropolitan Museum

While I have emphasised the carnet as predominantly associated with women, there are examples which include a miniature portrait of a man. This particular example (Fig. 16) implies its potential as a gift from a man, possibly a secret lover. Attributed to Louis Cousin, [13] it first seems like an ordinary carnet, with aubergine guilloché enamel background and ivory frames decorated with allegorical scenes. However, it features a secret mechanism; the front panel slides out to unveil a hidden miniature portrait of a man. Despite the inscription “Souvenir D'Amitié”, it is probable that the man bestowed this carnet upon the woman who owned it. However, the narrative that a best girlfriend would offer such a risqué gift is more intriguing. A comparable item is an oval-shaped snuff box crafted in Dresden in 1775, now housed in the Wallace Collection. [14] This box also conceals a secret slide that, when drawn out, reveals a portrait of Voltaire on one side and his mistress Emilie, Marquise du Chatelet on the other. Unfortunately, research has determined that the miniatures were made later, the box never belonging to Voltaire, as it was made 25 years after Emilie’s death and when Voltaire was much older. Nevertheless, hidden portrait miniatures in snuff boxes were not uncommon, a notable example being a mid-18th century box with a secret compartment revealing a portrait of Charles Edward Stuart, acquired by the West Highland Museum in 2019. These are still much like a reliquary, encouraging exterior aesthetic and material contemplation whilst concealing the representation of an invaluable tangible – the relationship between two individuals. [15]


Fig. 16 Carnet-de-Bal with secret mechanism in gold, attributed to Louis Cousin, Paris, 1779. Provenance : Chateau du Perche.

While carnet-de-bals may have maintained a primarily French identity, their allure undoubtedly transcended borders, and likely found its way to England. The giving, receiving, and wearing of portrait miniatures as part of fashionable social practice was an important aspect of luxury in England, so it is more than likely to have accustomed to female accessories as well. The carnet-de-bal below for example, although French in style has an English gold inscription, “Keepsake” on either side of the lid. 

The identity of the sitter and artist is unknown, but the inscriptions suggest ties to an English market. The use of dance cards gained tremendous popularity among European courtiers in the latter part of the 18th century and later was adopted in American ballrooms. The evolution of the carnet-de-bal into printed pasteboard booklets in the 19th century added a new dimension to its purpose. These booklets, hanging from silken cords on a lady’s wrist, became costly and elegant gifts exchanged among friends and lovers. They served as timeless and elegant reminders of shared moments and affectionate bonds, with inscriptions of “Souvenir D’Amitié” emphasising their sentimental value. Although they retained popularity through the initial decades of the 20th century, their decline began due to shifting cultural ideals. This era witnesses industrial and urban growth, the onset of global conflict, and the broadening of women’s roles in society. Consequently, the dance card came to symbolise a bygone era which could not be maintained. 


Fig. 17 Carnet-de-bal, Portrait Miniature of a Lady, wearing white gown, her hair powdered, set into a vari-coloured gold and painted papier-mache carnet-de-bal; circa 1785, The Limner Company. https://www.portraitminiature.com/c122-carnet-bal.

Whether portrait miniatures were mounted on jewellery, tokens of affection, or on an accessory, it is easy to overlook how highly invested they were as artefacts in female social relations and in representation. Once mounted, a fundamentally private object enters social and economic exchange systems, actively participating and engaging in public life. [16] 

Portrait miniatures are distinguished by the necessity of being both visually admired but also their fundamental role in being physically held. It is therefore essential to examine how the sense of touch is incorporated into these representational practices. The conscious design of these feminine accessories discussed reflects the significance of tactically and proximity between the body and the object. In navigating the landscape of 18th century functional luxury accessories, these portrait miniatures of carnet-de-bals reveal themselves not only as relics of personal emotions but also as tangible manifestations of the profound friendships that shaped the social fabric of the time. [17]

Specific examples of individual gifts exchanged between women may not be well-documented, however, one can look at the literary culture of Jane Austen for example which often include scenes of women exchanging small tokens or accessories as a sign of friendship. The concept of “inseparability” in female friendships described in Rousseau’s La Nouvelle Heloise (1761) also informs us of the extent women were involved in the realm of gift-giving culture. In the end, these reflect the common cultural practice of women exchanging gifts, a practice that Dr Leonie Hannan argues women were ‘highly implicated in the process of forming and maintaining friendships and familial connections abroad as well as at home.’ [18] As tokens of affection, remembrance, and alliance these ornate accessories preserve the spirit of female friendship, arguably the most profound friendship there is.

 “The tablets we use to write are a kind of little book which has a few sheets of ivory, paper or prepared parchment, on which we write with a touch or a pencil the things you want to remember” 
— Diderot

[1] See Jill Bepler and Svante Norrhem, Telling objects. Contextualising the role of the consort in early modern Europe, Wiesbaden, Harrasowitz Verlag, 2018, p. 9-16.)
[2] Scientific advancements, such as Jean Toutin’s revolutionary enamel painting technique, contributed to more affordable production, expanding the popularity of enamelled accessories beyond noble classes.
[3] Consultant Celine Cachaud shows how the display of the framing was directly linked to the technique of the miniature. In the beginning, the fragile structure of watercolours on vellum required to protect the miniature in boxes, closed medallions or precious cases, whereas with the development of the enamel technique, the portrait could be openly displayed and set in jewelled settings like a boîte à portrait.
[4] Montpetit refined this technique, often known as “eludoric”. These oil paintings were created on fine cloth (apparently under a thin layer of water) and then stuck onto the reverse side of an embossed glass with water-soluble glue (presumably animal glue).
[5] Roulston, Christine, ‘Separating the Inseparables: Female Friendship and its Discontents in Eighteenth-Century France’, p. 215
[6] Sawyer, Drew, Portrait Miniatures, Hair and the limits of Representation
[7]  It must be noted that shuttles were very often gifted by husbands or partners, however they were also exchanged among women.
[8] Roulston, Christine, ‘Separating the Inseparables: Female Friendship and its Discontents in Eighteenth-Century France’, p. 217
[9] Pointon, Marcia. “‘Surrounded with Brilliants’: Miniature Portraits in Eighteenth-Century England.”, p. 50
[10] Rappoport, Jill, “Giving Women: Alliance and Exchange in Victorian Culture, Chapter 2
[11]  Although his research is more geared towards carnet de bal in the 19th and 20th centuries, the functions would have not changed that much and would have had a similar approach. 
[12]  Sicardi was French miniaturist who worked in French court - known to have several portrait miniatures of Marie Antoinette, one of which being a portrait miniature of the Queen on a snuff box, last sold at Bonhams 26 April 2023
[13] Based on its similarity to a carnet-de-bal by Cousin, now in the Rijskmuseum, Amsterdam.
[14] There has been much debate on the legitimacy of this snuff box with two hidden portraits of Voltaire and Emilie du Chatalet, thought to be Dresden goldsmith Johann Christian Neuber.
[15] Pointon, Marcia. “‘Surrounded with Brilliants’: Miniature Portraits in Eighteenth-Century England.”, p. 60
[16] Ibid., p. 49
[17] Ibid., p. 62
[18] Jill Rappoport, “Giving Women: Alliance and Exchange in Victorian Culture, Chapter 2

The most extravagant and exclusive form of courtly entertainment during the first half of the seventeenth century was undoubtedly the masque. Huge sums of money were spent on these performances, which centred around illusionistic set designs, elaborate costumes, music, dance, and light effects. Accounts document how courtiers and royalty performed these festivities late into the night. Usually commissioned by the monarch, masques explored allegorical and fantastical themes, lauding the triumph of virtue over vice, but always with the essential aim of glorifying the monarch. The pair responsible for many of these performances at the Stuart court was architect and designer Inigo Jones (1573-1652) and one of the most important early-modern playwrights, Ben Jonson (c.1572-c.1637).


Fig. 1 Unknown Woman in Masque Costume, perhaps as ‘Flora’, c. 1605, Isaac Oliver (c. 1565-1617) - Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Miniatures from the period reveal that participants commissioned portraits of themselves in masque attire as a way of memorialising the part they played in such performances. Like the masque, the miniature had a selective audience which allowed the visual depiction of the human body to be at times more revealing than would have been possible elsewhere. Another similarity between the two art forms was the attention paid to elaborate costumes and illusionistic effects. Isaac Oliver’s miniatures of masque performers were the earliest of their type to document masque attire in miniature format. Following on from him, miniaturists of the first half of the seventeenth century created portraits which did not link to specific masques, but instead evoked the event’s style and atmosphere, demonstrating that the masque aesthetic became deeply connected to self-fashioning in miniature format.

The earliest miniatures made by Isaac Oliver which depict sitters in masque costume date to the first decade of the seventeenth century. They mainly show women, often in revealing costumes, wearing unusual jewellery and headpieces. One example is a miniature of an unknown woman, traditionally thought to be Frances Howard, Countess of Somerset (1590-1632). She appears in a silvery costume with a delicately painted transparent veil. It has been suggested that the miniature shows a performer from Hymenaei (1606).[1] In this, the female masquers were described as wearing ‘white cloth of silver’ and, with an overall colour theme of white, gold and silver, there is certainly a close resemblance to this sitter’s ensemble.[2] Two further miniatures by Isaac Oliver show unknown sitters in masque costume. One is of a woman likely in the guise of ‘Flora’, the Roman goddess of spring [Fig. 1]. Her hair is adorned with a headpiece of flowers and jewellery, and she wears an antique-style outfit with transparent fabric covering her breasts. Her outfit is a clear indicator that she was a masque performer: several surviving masque costume designs by Inigo Jones show similarly revealing outfits.[3] A miniature, likely from 1609, shows another unknown woman with antique-style costume, including a grotesque ornament and mantle, a translucent veil and decorative jewelled headpiece (Victoria and Albert Museum). This miniature could relate to either of Jonson’s 1609 masques, The Masque of Beauty or The Masque of Queens.


Fig. 2 Anne of Denmark (1574-1619), c. 1610, Isaac Oliver (c. 1565-1617) © Royal Collection Trust.

By around 1610, the fashion for depicting sitters in masque costume had reached the royal family. Several miniatures survive of Henry Frederick, Prince of Wales, in which he wears masque costume, sitting in profile and depicted as a Roman emperor. He wears a gold-embellished red cloak and is set against an architectural niche. Likely at the same date, Prince Henry’s mother Anne of Denmark was painted by Isaac Oliver in a similar fashion [Fig. 2]: she is seen in profile, wearing a jewelled headpiece, translucent veil and is adorned with gold, silver, and pearl jewellery.


Fig. 3 Probably Lucy Harington, Countess of Bedford (1581-1627), c. 1615, Isaac Oliver (c. 1565-1617) - Fitzwilliam Museum

A prolific patron of the arts and an important sitter for Isaac Oliver was Lucy Harington, Countess of Bedford (1581-1627). At least five of her portraits by Oliver survive which likely relate to masques. One shows her wearing an embroidered low-cut costume, covered with fruits and flowers, and a translucent patterned veil that wraps around her body [Fig. 3]. Her representation in this way appears to have been an important starting point for a fashion in miniatures that took off in the second decade of the seventeenth century, in which women portrayed themselves in what could be termed ‘masque-inspired’ costumes. Over 20 miniatures survive by Isaac Oliver, Peter Oliver, and John Hoskins all of which show women in similar outfits [see Fig. 4. Victoria and Albert Museum P.3&A-1950, and Fig. 5]. Akin to Oliver’s miniatures of Lucy Harington, the sitters wear heavily embroidered costumes featuring stylised flowers. All have low necklines, often with a black thread necklace or string of pearls. Their hair is for the most part loose and in many a red antique-style mantle is draped across one shoulder.


Fig. 5 An Unknown Woman, c. 1615-20, Peter Oliver (c. 1589-1647) - Nationalmuseum Stockholm.
Fig. 6. Called Arabella Stuart, c. 1615, Isaac Oliver (c. 1565-1617) - Rijksmuseum

The embroidered jacket seen in these miniatures is not quite a masque costume and these outfits do not match up with the masque costume designs by Inigo Jones. It has been speculated that the costume seen in these miniatures is an adaptation of outfits already owned by female sitters for a masque at home. There are several portraits which show sitters wearing the same patterned embroidered jacket, but with a high neckline, signifying informal, domestic attire [Fig. 6 Victoria and Albert Museum E.214-1994]. A surviving jacket of the period at the V&A with a low neckline shows signs of alterations, indicating that outfits seen in the miniatures could have been adaptations for a theatrical performance [Fig. 7 Victoria and Albert Museum 1359-1900]. However, it is surprising that so many miniatures exist depicting sitters in this outfit, suggesting that it was more likely a fashion to evoke the masque aesthetic, rather than alterations made to existing garments.

In fact, the use of embroidery in masques seems not to have been generally advised. In his essay Of Masques and Triumphs, Francis Bacon wrote for costumes that ‘rich embroidery’ is all but pointless, as ‘it is lost and not discerned.’[4] Yet the gold additions, classical-style mantle, jewellery, low neckline, and loose hair all evoke the fashion of masque attire. Female masquers in a performance held for Queen Elizabeth in 1600 were described as wearing ‘a mantel of carnacion taffeta cast under the arme, and their haire loose about their shoulders.’[5] The overall impact of these miniatures is a clearly intended allusion to the high-status, elite aesthetic of the masque, with the implication that sitters and collectors of such items wished to parade their close links with court etiquette.

The vogue for masque fashion in miniatures reached its apex in the years leading up to 1620, however the connection between the masque and small format paintings did continue. In 1632, Queen Henrietta Maria performed in the masque Tempe Restored, and subsequently commissioned the miniaturist John Hoskins to paint her portrait in masque costume [Fig. 7]. The costume Hoskins depicts her in does not exactly match the surviving costume designed for her by Inigo Jones, but the silver star patterned outfit is certainly consistent with it.[6] Her role in the masque was that of ‘Divine Beauty’ and the text details how ‘the Queen’s majesty was in a garment of watchet satin with stars of silver embroidered and embossed from the ground, and her head a crown of stars mixed with small falls of white feathers.[7]


Fig. 7 Queen Henrietta Maria (1609-1690), c. 1632, John Hoskins © Royal Collection Trust

More than any other type of portraiture, the atmosphere of the masque, with its flickering lights, movement, sparkling jewels, and colourful ensembles, could be captured in portrait miniature. Nicholas Hilliard pioneered the use of actual ground gold to depict jewels in his miniatures, thus making them glisten and glimmer when the miniatures caught the light. Revealing costumes also adapted well to the miniature format, where the recipient could control who viewed the object. To be represented in masque attire conveyed an exclusive status connected to the innermost court circles, and while the particular fashion for this type of masque dress in miniature was exclusive to the courts of James VI and I and Charles I, the miniature format retained its ability to convey discreet yet distinct messages.

[1] Jill Finsten, Isaac Oliver: Art at the Courts of Elizabeth I and James I, 2 vols (New York: Garland, 1981), ii, p. 77.

[2] Lesley Mickel, ‘Glorious Spangs and Rich Embroidery: Costume in The Masque of Blackness and Hymenaei’, Studies in the Literary Imagination, 36.2 (2003).

[3] For example, his outfit for A Lady Masquer, c.1600-05 (Chatsworth).

[4] Francis Bacon, Of Masques and Triumphs, 1597.

[5] This description is found in a letter from Rowland Whyte to Sir Robert Sidney in 1600, quoted in J. Nichols, The Progresses and Public: Processions of Queen Elizabeth I (London, 1823), iii, p. 498.

[6] S.  Orgel and R. Strong, Inigo Jones: The Theatre of the Stuart Court (London, 1973), ii, pp. 501-503. 3

[7] Orgel and Strong, ii, p. 481. 

In August this year, researchers at the University of Dundee unveiled what they believe to be the true face of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Prince Charles Edward Stuart (1720-1788) [Fig. 1]. Although by today’s standards, it might be remarked that he wasn’t as handsome as his moniker suggests, his likeness is instantly recognisable from the Prince’s many portraits. However this is not an article about shifting beauty standards, but rather the importance of portraiture in the Jacobite campaign, and the distinct role of the portrait miniature. 


Fig. 1 The recreation of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s face on display in August at the University of Dundee’s Masters Show at Duncan of Jordanston College of Art & Design. 

The model was created by a team at the University’s Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification using a death mask of the Prince, who died in Rome at the age of 67 after suffering a stroke. The mask was painstakingly photographed and mapped to produce 3D models with state-of-the-art software. Experts then “de-aged” Charles to create a 24-year-old representation. This likeness therefore dates to the period he is best remembered: on the eve of the Jacobite uprisings of 1745 and the Battle of Culloden in April 1746. This period also saw a proliferation in Charles’s portraiture.

So who was he? Prince Charles Edward Stuart, a.k.a. ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’, a.k.a. the ‘Young Pretender’, was son of James Francis Edward Stuart (1688-1766), the ‘Old Pretender’, and grandson of deposed King James II & VII of England, Ireland, and Scotland (1633-1701). James II had fled to France in 1688 following the invasion of Prince William of Orange and his wife Princess Mary (James II’s own daughter). Thereafter, James II lived in exile on the continent, from where his son and grandson would launch their campaigns to regain the throne.

Portraiture was of great importance to the campaign to restore James II’s line to the throne, known as the Jacobite campaign (Jacobus being the Latin for James). While James II had been crowned, his exiled son and grandson never occupied positions of power, so portraiture was a means to project their image as both statesmen and plausible leaders of an invasion. James Francis Edward Stuart and Charles, were therefore invariably portrayed wearing the Order of the Garter[1], the Order of the Thistle[2], and/or armour [Fig. 2].


Fig. 2
 Portrait miniature of James Francis Edward Stuart, Prince of Wales, ‘The Old Pretender’, wearing a suit of armour and blue sash of the Garter over his left shoulder; circa 1702; attributed to Anne Cheron (c.1663-1718), after Alexis-Simon Belle (1674-1734) - The Limner Company

James Francis Edward Stuart employed portraiture to promote himself and his sons from an early age. James had fled to the Italy in 1717, where the Pope grudgingly granted him a residence in Rome and where Charles would be born three years later. Rome not only boasted virtuoso native talent to whom the family would sit for portraits, such as celebrated court artist Domenico Duprà (1689-1770) and Antonio David (1698-1750), but attracted visiting artists from all over Europe. The exiled Stuarts therefore sat to the likes of Jean-Etienne Liotard (1702-1789), Louis-Gabriel Blanchet (1705-1772), and Brits such as Allan Ramsay (1713-1784), Giles Hussey (1710–1788), both of whom would play a particularly important role in Charles’s iconography.


Fig. 3
Portrait of Prince Charles Edward Stuart; c.1735; Giles Hussey- previously with Philip Mould & Co.

Giles Hussey was studying and working in Rome between 1732 and 1737, as Charles was approaching his majority. Turning 18 on 31st December 1738, Charles took the Jacobite hopes upon his energetic shoulders. Hussey was from a Roman Catholic country family, and it’s likely this background that rendered a certain degree of tenderness to his very finely observed portraits of the prince, who embodied the hope of many British Catholics. Hussey’s portraits are striking in their similarity to the visage unveiled in the summer by the University of Dundee, in particular one previously with Philip Mould & Co. [Fig. 3]. On Hussey’s to England in 1736, he would produce many copies of his drawings of the Jacobite heirs made in Rome.

Allan Ramsay was also training in Rome at this time. It was there he first met the prince in 1736, but it was a portrait he painted later - on the eve of the Jacobite uprising on 1745 (dubbed "‘the 45”) - that would become a definitive image of Charles [Fig. 4].


Fig. 4 Prince Charles Edward Stuart; 1745; Allan Ramsay – National Galleries of Scotland

Ramsay’s portrait is the original portrait type on which many other images are based, and yet it as the dissemination of this portrait type in miniatures, medals and engravings that made it so recognisable.[3] One stupendous oil portrait does not rally supporters from behind the gates of a lofty palace. Indeed, Ramsay’s oil is now believed to have been commissioned by Charles (or a member of his inner circle) as a basis for an engraving by Robert Strange (1721-92) [Fig. 5]. Recent research has suggested that the engraving was commissioned by the Prince himself in Edinburgh in 1745, when he had decided to march on London.[4] It’s striking that in the headiest days of the uprising, in the midst of strategizing the coup that had been his life’s aim, Charles was also thinking about portraiture.


Fig. 5 Engraving of Prince Charles Edward Stuart; 1745; Sir Robert Strange – National Galleries of Scotland

Robert Strange (himself an ardent Jacobite supporter who fought at the Battle of Culloden) also designed banknotes in preparation for Charles’s victory and painted his portrait in miniature [Fig. 6]. Strange was appointed ‘Miniature Painter and Engraver’ to Prince Charles. In the same way as any monarch, Charles appointed an artist to produce miniatures he would present to his supporters.


Fig. 6 Prince Charles Edward Stuart; 1740s; Sir Robert Strange – previously with Philip Mould & Co.

Bonnie Prince Charlie’s supporters were often depicted holding a portrait miniature of him, illustrating their allegiance [Fig. 7]


Fig. 7
Portrait of a lady, believed to be Jenny (Jean) Cameron holding a miniature of Bonnie Prince Charlie in her right hand; Circle of Jeremiah Davison (c.1695-1745)- Christie’s, 2000

Interestingly, where the oil portrait and engraving do not show Charles wearing Highland dress or an element of tartan, many miniatures and other small scale paintings do [Figs 8 & 9].[5] The Highland dress signified the Stuart claim and aligned Charles with the Scots on whose support his campaign entirely depended. While the engraving was commissioned in anticipation of Charles regaining the throne, whence it would be widely circulated across the whole of Britain, miniatures were more personal objects, exchanged and kept by Jacobite supporters. 


Fig. 8 Portrait miniature of Prince Charles Edward Stuart; c.1745; attributed to Sir Robert Strange – Royal Collection Trust

Fig. 9 Portrait miniature of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, c.1745; after Sir Robert Strange – Royal Collection Trust

Being small and portable, miniatures were one of the ways supporters could display allegiance to one another. They were also easily hidden, which was vital as being found to be a Jacobite was a treasonable offence. It is for the same reason that Bonnie Prince Charlie’s portrait was sometimes disguised in an anamorphic image. One famous example being a drinks tray in the collection of the West Highland Museum, Scotland [Fig. 10].


Fig. 10 Drinks tray with an anamorphic portrait of Prince Charles Edward Stuart – West Highland Museum, Fort William

The most devotional of Jacobite portraits must be the miniatures set into jewellery [Fig. 11 and see also Victoria and Albert Museum 6-1899]. A portrait that is not only kept on your person at all times, but worn on the body, is significant of a fervent commitment to the cause.


Fig. 11 Ring with a portrait miniature of Prince Charles Edward Stuart; c. 1745; British School – Royal Collection Trust

Arguably the quality of the likeness deteriorates with portraits so small, but the aura of artworks such as this – held and worn by people from history who were perhaps willing to die for their beliefs – is quite something to behold. It’s an intimate quality almost unique to the portrait miniature and epitomised here.

Further Reading:

https://www.historyscotland.com/history/lost-portrait-of-bonnie-prince-charlie-on-display-at-fort-william-mus/

https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/features/jacobite-icon-allan-ramsay%E2%80%99s-portrait-prince-charles-edward-stuart

https://www.dundee.ac.uk/stories/bonnie-prince-charlie-recreation-shows-face-jacobite-rising 

Other objects of interest:

https://www.rct.uk/collection/search#/68/collection/441923/thistle-badge 

https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw191367/Flora-Macdonald-with-miniature-of-Prince-Charles-Edward-Stuart?LinkID=mp00842&wPage=1&role=sit&rNo=22


Footnotes:

[1] The Order of the Garter was the highest and oldest Order of Chivalry in Britain. Members include the monarch, senior royal family and 24 others chosen personally by the Sovereign.

[2] King James II & VII established the Order of the Thistle (reinstituting an ancient chivalric tradition) in 1687 - to reward Scottish peers who supported the king's political and religious aims. As his grandson, the ‘Old Pretender’ maintained the iconography and symbolism of the Order of the Thistle.

[3] During the infamous episode following Charles’s escape from Culloden, when he was spirited away by Flora MacDonald in disguise as a maidservant called Betty Burke, doubts about his disguise were founded not just on his stature but his distinct oval face – so recognisable from his well-known image.

[4] https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/features/jacobite-icon-allan-ramsay%E2%80%99s-portrait-prince-charles-edward-stuart  

[5] See also the small scale ‘Harlequin’ portrait type, for example https://www.christies.com/en/lot/lot-1948365 

The Philip Mould & Co. exhibition, ‘“Without Hands”: The Art of Sarah Biffin’, co-curated by our director, Emma Rutherford, has won the Critics’ Circle ‘Commercial Exhibition of the Year’ award!

Philip Mould & Co. is the first to receive a Critics’ Circle award for a commercial exhibition. 

Philip Mould & Co. received the award on Friday 29th September at a ceremony hosted by the British Art Fair at the Saatchi Gallery.

Sarah Biffin (1784-1850)’s remarkable life and work had been largely overlooked by historians until the exhibition co-curated by Emma and Ellie Smith, working closely with advisor Alison Lapper, contributors Essaka Joshua and Elle Shushan, and researcher Valeria Vallucci. The show, held at Philip Mould & Co.’s Pall Mall gallery from 1st November - 21 December 2022, was covered widely in the press, receiving a 5-star review from The Telegraph and featured in The Times, The Guardian, BBC Radio 4, Financial Times, Homes & Antiques magazine and The Art Newspaper.

A version of the exhibition opened at The Holburne Museum, Bath, on 29th September 2023 and will run until 14th January 2024. This constitutes the first major museum exhibition on the artist and Emma, Ellie and Alison will be giving a talk at The Holburne on 23rd November 2023. Emma and Ellie will also be speaking about the exhibition at the Understanding British Portraits annual seminar on 24th October 2023.

The Critics’ Circle Visual Arts Awards is described as “the Oscars of the British art world” and other winners included the National Gallery and National Portrait Gallery.

Fig. 1
The Reverend Frederick William Blomberg, D.D. (1761-1847), dated 1769, Hugh Douglas Hamilton (1739-1808)- The Limner Company

On a visit to the royal nursery in 1769, one would have met four princes and two princesses, including George, Prince of Wales (later King George IV) – who had been born born August 1762.[1] Born just a year before this first child of the young Queen Charlotte, one would have met another boy, indistinguishable from his apparent siblings. This boy was Frederick William Blomberg, the child portrayed in this drawing (Fig.1) – who had been evidently welcomed into the nursery as a toddler by King George III and Queen Charlotte. The sketch was drawn by Hugh Douglas Hamilton (1740-1808), who in the summer of 1769 had been asked to draw the four princes, along with their parents (Fig.2). These drawings now reside in the Royal Collection at Windsor Castle, the young princes shown in feigned oval frames, their parents in informal clothing with the king shown without any orders or ribbons. It is fascinating that the only drawing missing from this group is the one of the mysterious Blomberg – the cuckoo in the royal nest.[2]


Fig. 2 Left to right: William, Duke of Clarence (1765-1837), 1769; Edward, Duke of Kent (1767-1820), c.1769; Frederick, Duke of York (1763-1827), Jun 1769; George, Prince of Wales (1762-1830), signed and dated 1769; George III (1738-1820), signed and dated 1769; all by Hugh Douglas Hamilton (1739-1808) - Royal Collection Trust

Called Frederick William Blomberg, the child had been born in 1761, the record of his baptism being recorded at St Margaret’s, Rochester. His parentage, however, remained a cause for speculation throughout his life and beyond. One version stated that he was the son of a certain Major Frederick Blomberg, and his wife Mellissa Laing. Major Blomberg was said to have drowned, leaving the child to be raised by Queen Charlotte – but why would the young queen have taken on a child when she was already a mother to three boys of her own (confusingly for the young Blomberg, one called Frederick, another William)? The supposed parents do not seem to have had close connections to the royal couple. Other sources give the child’s father as Friedrich Karl August von Blomberg (d.1764) but with his mother not dying until 1803, it is strange that she would not have raised him.


Fig. 3 George III, Queen Charlotte and their six eldest children, c.1769-70, Johan Joseph Zoffany (1733-1810) - Royal Collection Trust

One explanation has made sense during Blomberg’s lifetime and beyond – that he was in fact the illegitimate son of George III. Baptised two weeks after the King’s marriage, and one day after his coronation, it is unclear exactly when the child entered the royal nursery. He was certainly there in 1765, as in January that year Lady Charlotte Finch, known affectionately as 'Lady Cha'), noted that Queen Charlotte wished to have some separation for Blomberg (then only four years old) from the rest of the royal children; ‘The Queen determined to take Master Blomberg and allow him 50 pds a year and put him under Mrs. Cotesworth’s care.’[3] Mrs Cotesworth was the sub-governess to the royal children, while Charlotte Finch ran the royal nursery (she can be seen in the painting by Zoffany, the only non-royal included, holding a baby, probably Ernest (1771-1851), later Duke of Cumberland and King of Hanover (Fig. 4).


Fig. 4 Queen Charlotte with members of her family, c.1771-2, Johan Joseph Zoffany (1733-1810) - Royal Collection Trust

Whilst Blomberg’s striking resemblance to his adoptive siblings was noted, no evidence has emerged to clarify his parentage.[4] One explanation for his close likeness to the royal children was that, if not the son of the King, he could have been the offspring of one of the King’s brothers – most likely Edward, Duke of York. In 1760, as a handsome naval officer, Edward had enjoyed a reputation for his affairs with many women and may well have fathered a child born in 1761. If the child was not the King’s own illegitimate child, his sense of duty may have informed his decision to bring his nephew up among his own progenies.[5]


Fig. 5 [George IV and Frederick, Duke of York as Princes] c. 1766, James Watson (c.1739-90)- Royal Collection Trust

Blomberg’s royal upbringing and financial support from this grand family assisted his rapid rise in his chosen career in the church.  After a Cambridge education, his positions included including Prebendary of Bristol (1790-1828) and Westminster (1808-1822) and Chaplain to George, Prince of Wales (the future George IV) between 1793 and 1830. His ambition cannot be explained by his talent as a preacher – as one contemporary observer noted, he was better suited to a career as a musician; ‘he was poor in his sermons, […] on the fiddle had few superiors.’ On Blomberg’s death in 1847 (after he had also served Queen Victoria as Canon Residentiary of St Pauls and as her personal chaplain), the Gentleman’s Magazine wrote a tactful obituary. Ignoring rumours of his ancestry, they simply stated that he lived ‘in intimate association with the children of King George III who always retained great affection for him’.

Speculation continued into Queen Victoria’s reign as to exactly who Blomberg had been and two books were published which investigated his close association with the Royal Family (The Unseen World in 1847 and The Journal and Memories of Thomas Whalley in 1863). Woven into the tale was now a ghost story, based on another book published shortly after Queen Charlotte’s death in 1818 (fig.6).[6] This story stated that, following the death of his father, Major Frederick Blomberg, who allegedly drowned enroute to Dominica, his ghost then supposedly appeared to the governor of Dominica to tell him the whereabouts of Blomberg’s two children, the orphaned offspring of a secret marriage, who were housed with a distant English relative. Moved by this story, Charlotte was then allegedly inspired to adopt the boy (although no mention is made of the fate of the other child).


Fig. 6 T. M. Jarvis, Accredited Ghost Stories, London, J. Andrews, 1823

Apparently sketched in the Royal nursery, the little boy in this drawing (fig.1) looks lost and withdrawn. He has been portrayed surrounded by his accomplishments – including a violin, a notebook and a porte-crayon – some of the activities provided by the busy royal nursery, which at the time boasted a huge number of staff (from cradle rockers and dressers to reading masters, pages and porters).[7] Only one other image exists of Blomberg – a painting sold at Christie’s in 1982 – by Richard Brompton (1734-1783) (fig.7).


Fig. 7
Frederick, Duke of York and Albany, mezzotint by Joseph Saunders after Richard Brompton, published 1774 by Walter Shropshire- National Portrait Gallery, London

While we may never know the exact circumstances surrounding Blomberg’s presence in the royal nursery, the fact that he was welcomed into this exclusive environment is due cause for speculation surrounding his parentage. If he was not a child of George III’s, his presence illuminates the royal couple’s sense of duty – either to an orphaned boy or to the offspring of one of George’s brothers. Whatever the truth behind the boy’s background, this is one storyline where fact was stranger than fiction – take note Bridgerton…

[1] The others would have been: Prince Frederick, Duke of York and Albany - born August 16, 1763; Prince William (later King William IV) - born August 21, 1765; Charlotte, Princess Royal - born September 29, 1766; Prince Edward, Duke of Kent and Strathearn - born November 2, 1767 and Princess Augusta Sophia - born November 8, 1768. 

[2] This group, said to have been commissioned by George III, is noted in O(E) : Oppé, A.P., 1950. English Drawings in the Collection of His Majesty The King at Windsor Castle, London, p. 54, the one of the Queen illustrated as plate 6.

[3] GEO/ ADDL 21/ 181.

[4] Alumni Cantabrigienses noted that Blomberg was a constant companion to the royal children and that he resembled some of them. He was admitted to St. John’s College in 1777.

[5] Although George III has been suggested as the child’s father in many sources, his infatuation with Lady Sarah Lennox in the years leading up to his marriage may have precluded any other extra marital affairs. It would also have been wholly out of character for George III.

[6] This story was published by Jarvis, T. M., Accredited Ghost Stories, London, J. Andrews, 1823, pp. 138-141.

[7] Details of staff are listed by Bucholz, Robert, "The Royal Nursery (1737-1768)" (2019). The Database of Court Officers 1660-1837. 99. https://ecommons.luc.edu/courtofficers/99 

Ann Bermingham prefaces her text Learning to Draw (New Haven & London, 2000) with ‘As early as the sixteenth century, drawing in England came to be seen as something more than an activity exclusive to artists – it became a polite and useful art, a practice of everyday life.’[1] Although sometimes considered less important than the more salient forms of painting and sculpture, the appeal of drawing to artists persisted beyond studious purpose. In fact, for many craftsmen, importantly Limners, during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries drawing provided them with a plethora of possibilities, both formally and informally, beyond the constraints of their medium.

One example of where it served a useful purpose is the genre of portrait drawings. With the turn of nineteenth century and the Royal Watercolour Society’s first public exhibition in 1804, a new appreciation for the genre was ushered in and portraits by miniaturists on paper became increasingly fashionable. Unlike traditional watercolourists, miniaturists were hindered by the size of the ivory discs onto which they could paint. Not only were larger pieces of ivory prone to splits and cracks, but the high level of detail required took far longer in this larger format than was economically viable for artists. Drawing in many ways became a solution for miniaturists who took their talent for precision and transferred it to works on paper so that could be hung upon a wall and appeal to this new marketplace.

Limners flourished in this freedom afforded by drawing, however it spread beyond their traditional practice and importantly into their informal studies. Both Richard Cosway (1742-1821) and John Smart (1741-1811) were trained at William Shipley’s Drawing School, and although abandoned the formal practice of draughtsmanship in exchange for pursuing portraiture, continued to derive an extraordinary amount of pleasure through observational studies and appreciation of drawing indeed as a practice of everyday life. One particularly interesting example are Smart’s Four Studies of Fish, executed in watercolour and pencil, that come from a sketchbook used by the artist on his return from India in 1795.[2]


John Smart, Four studies of fish, including a Blue Shark, an Albacore, a Sucking Fish and another; watercolour over pencil on laid paper, each 150 x 194 mm - Sotheby's 2023

These highly detailed aquatic drawings feel a world away from the exquisite portraits of East India Company Officials and British aristocrats that marked this period out as Smart’s most celebrated. Whilst their precision further reiterates Smart’s flair for clarity, they importantly suggest that the artist considered drawing to be a practice he could dip into around his commissions; one that would enable him to examine and appreciate subjects beyond the formality of a portrait.

Around the end of the eighteenth century, Smart had begun training his son, John Smart Jr (1776-1809), in the art of limning and it appears that this appreciation for drawing was similarly inherited. Executed in 1798, Smart Jr.’s pencil study of Philip Hobby Knight, after Holbein (Fig.1), displays an equally superb faculty.


Fig. 1John Smart Jnr, Drawing of Philip Hobby Knight, after Hans Holbein the Younger, 1798
- The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

The image derives from a drawing made by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/8-1543) that was part of a series of gentlemen associated with the English Court between 1532 and 1543. Smart Jr. did not work from the original but instead copied an engraving by Francesco Bartolozzi that was part of a printed series titled Imitations of Original Drawings by Holbein, in the Collection of His Majesty, for the Portraits of Illustrious Persons in the Court of Henry VIII published in 1796.[3] Executed around the time Smart Jr. was being trained, it could be presumed that this volume was part of his father’s collection and suggests that John Smart Sr. had both a heightened antiquarian interest Holbein and used these etchings as a way to study and emulate this talent in drawing.

Richard Cosway, the other leading miniaturist of the Regency period, was also a staunch admirer of the Old Masters. However, this went beyond interest as Cosway became widely known for his personal collection and talent as a consultant who was able to advise his wealthiest clients on the purchase of these works. The Royal Academy holds a dossier of Cosway’s collection from 1791 and includes in its title ‘the undoubted works of the great masters of the Florentine, Roman, Venetian, Lombard, Flemish, and Dutch schools.’[4] The classical themes of these paintings and drawings evidently bled into Cosway’s own practice, and many of his works on paper serve as evidence for his verdant interest in the resurgence of neo-classicism.

One particularly elegant example of this is a small pen, brown ink and pencil drawing from the 1790s (Fig.2) that depicts a graceful woman reclining upon a chaise lounge. Executed with sweeping sinuous lines, the lady is depicted in a classically-inspired dress. Whilst no associated painting or drawing has been identified, the artist’s heavy interest in Old Master paintings and drawings suggest inspiration to a certain extent. Cosway displayed a propensity for drawing from a very young age and studies of this sort appearing at the height of his career, in a form far from his finely executed portrait miniatures, show how drawing continued to not only inspire but encourage the artist in his ambition to become ‘someday the greatest artist in London’.[5]


Fig. 2 Richard Cosway, Study of a Vestal Virgin, circa 1790s- The Limner Company

Whilst there has been a great deal discussed surrounding the importance of drawing for male limners, less has been examined on its significance for women artists. In fact, in many ways drawing opened the doors for women to enter the regulated world of portraiture and male-dominated spheres that demarked artistic society. As Catherine Tilney exclaims in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey (1803), ‘…she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw…’. One successful female miniaturist who dipped between both drawing and limning was Emma Eleonora Kendrick (c.1788-1871), who was prominent at the same time as both John Smart and Richard Cosway. Having most likely received her formal artistic training under her father, the sculptor Joseph Kendrick, Emma, a member of the New Water-Colour Society, went onto exhibit her works at the Royal Academy of Art between 1811 and 1840. She often held royal patronage and her miniatures of British Nobility were praised for their depth of colour and heightened level of detail.

Kendrick’s watercolours and drawings, albeit less known or appreciated than her miniatures, offer a fascinating insight into the woman as an artist. One in particular, an ink and wash study on paper (Fig.3), does not appear a world away from Cosway’s Vestal Virgin. This work depicts an elegant woman glancing to something out of the left of the composition.


Fig. 3 Emma Eleanora Kendrick after Guercino, Sophonisba with the bowl of poison- The Limner Company

It is believed to have been copied from a work by Guercino (1591-1666) in the Royal Collection. Kendrick is known to have made watercolour copies of various 16th and 17th century Italian painters including masters including Niccolò dell’Abbate and Guercino. As a successful miniaturist in her own right, Kendrick appears to have turned to drawing for other purposes. This may have been for pleasure like Smart, studying an Old Master in a manner so as to broaden her studies beyond the formal constraints of typical portrait compositions, or like Cosway, seemingly turning to the Old Masters as a source of inspiration. However, what differentiates Kendrick’s work from both Smart and Cosway’s is the idea of a woman artist using watercolour and drawing as a vehicle through which she could engage and secure the idea of female craftsmanship throughout history.

In many ways then, drawing appears to have fallen hand in hand with limning during its height in Georgian and Regency England. Artists such as John Smart, Richard Cosway and Emma Eleanora Kendrick turned to the medium in a break from the constraints of limning materials. With a heightened commercial interest in the genre, artists also used drawing in a practical manner. However, in the works than appear furthest from the formality of portrait miniatures, the most is discovered about the artist. From the sea creature drawings of John Smart on his way back from India to Kendrick’s reimagining of revered masterworks, the pleasure derived from drawing appears to have had a profound influence upon the artist in their examination of the natural and social world around.

[1] Ann Bermingham, Learning to Draw: Studies in the Cultural History of a Polite and Useful Art, New Haven & London, 2000. 

[2]Sold, Sotheby’s London, Old Master & British Works on Paper, 6th July 2023, lot 153. - https://www.sothebys.com/en/buy/auction/2023/old-master-british-works-on-paper/four-studies-of-fish

[3] The portrait of Philip Hobby is plate 39. John Smart Jr.’s drawing is now held in the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, accension number: 2022.25.1. https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/854137

[4]For more information see the catalogue entry on the Royal Academy Website (record number 23/431): https://royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/book/a-catalogue-of-the-entire-collection-of-pictures-of-richard-cosway-esq-r-a (accessed: 21st July 2023).

[5] G.C. Williamson, Richard Cosway, R.A., and His Wife and Pupils: Miniaturists of the Eighteenth Century, (London, 1897), p. 1.

Bethany Perry is a freelance researcher and writer based in London. She previously worked for Sotheby's in their Impressionist & Modern and Modern British Art Departments and prior to that was a Graduate Intern at Philip Mould & Co. Contact: bethanygperry@gmail.com.

Perhaps no other form of jewellery holds such an intimacy as that of portrait miniatures and hairwork jewellery. These mediums when combined serve as object memory and represent the sincerity of the sitter in life and death. These items of adornment were created with precise detail and skill, as testament to a person loved or admired, whose likeness these tiny artworks aimed to capture. However, there is much more to these objects than a simple means of identification. So often, we see portrait miniatures set with the addition of the sitter's hair. The inclusion of hair within portrait miniatures holds many layered meanings and offers a tangible connection to the person in the portrait. To understand the importance of hair in these pieces, is to understand the deep sentimentality and affection for personal relic observed within Western European and Anglo-American history.

Portrait art of the quattrocento era of the Renaissance saw a distinct shift from the generic representation of everyday people to an increased interest in individual identity. "After many centuries in which generic representation had been the norm, distinctive portrait likenesses began to reappear in Europe in the 15th century. The resurgence of portraiture was thus a significant manifestation of the Renaissance in Europe"[1]. Portrait miniatures were objects used to establish political or economic alliances or to aid in the arrangement of marriages and often had diplomatic significance.[2] This aesthetic shift towards the representation of the individual in portraiture, set in motion the desire for items of sentimentality, which would flourish in the centuries following. 


Left to right: hairwork reverse of portrait miniature of a Lady wearing a turban, c.1770, by Richard Cosway (1742-1821); hairwork reverse of portrait miniature of a child possibly of the Graham family, 1786, by Diana Hill (nèe Dietz) (c. 1765-1844) - both The Limner Company. 

The Romantic Period was born in revolution and spurred on in a flurry of art, literature, poetry, and music. Revolt against established monarchy and religious institutions were the shifting sands of societal change which became the foundation for the French Revolution. The aftermath of this social and political upheaval was the promotion of individualism and emotion. "Whereas during the Renaissance portrait miniatures had served political or economic marital alliances, in the 18th and early 19th centuries they cemented true romantic and familial attachment"[3]. The exchanging of human hair had long been practiced across Western cultures and is detailed in the poet works of English writer, John Donne, as early as the 16th century. Hair's resistance to decay alongside it's ubiquitous and intimate nature, made it an appealing item to exchange during periods of separation, in a time which pre-dated the invention of photography. Art historian, Marcia Pointon, describes these long periods of absence as “institutionalised separation:  the grand tour (leading to lengthy sojourns in Rome by young aristocratic men), military and naval campaigns, mercantile expansionism, and emigration generated the conditions for the production and circulation of portrait-objects”[4]. When we consider the act of gifting hair as a token of love or tangible 'forget-me-not', we understand the deep connection between the giver and the recipient.

It is important to understand the social context of hair gifting to appreciate the true sentiment behind these jewels. The giving of one's hair was regarded as the giving of one's self and was to be done with the upmost sincerity. Social etiquette developed around the practice of gifting hair; "a young unmarried woman could receive such a memento from male and female relatives and female friends, [however] she could accept one only from a man to whom she was betrothed.  A young woman could exchange a lock of hair with an admirer at his request, but only if neither lock were set into jewellery"[5]. These social parameters when observed retrospectively offer clues into the relationships between gift giver and recipient. "The hair's filament would transmit one's self to another, and as the recipient took possession of the gift, he or she accepted the giver's self"[6]. The social value placed upon hair made it a popular incorporation across almost every variety of jewellery and by the 18th century hairwork was used to make decorative backs to portrait miniatures worn as necklaces[7] (see for example Victoria and Albert Museum P.98-1962). The significance of gifting hair, alongside the material cost and labour intensity of producing portrait miniatures, alludes to the deep sentimental importance of these objects to the individuals depicted within them and their significance as object memory in documenting social connections of the time.


Bracelet with nine lockets, one with a miniature of the left eye of Charlotte, Princess of Wales (1796-1817); early nineteenth century, British School - Royal Collection Trust / © His Majesty King Charles III 2023

The deep sentimentality of portrait miniatures and the inclusion of hairwork made these objects even more significant upon the death of the sitter. The poignancy of hairwork serving as a relic of the deceased, coupled with a person's portrait or even a partial portraiture, as observed in 'lover's eye' jewellery, was often the only tangible connection left of a loved one. "Because hair does not decay, it was a way to immortalise loved ones back in the day. These objects were emblems of love that acted as personal records of family and friends, both living and deceased"[8]. The popularity to include hair in portrait miniatures, coincided with the fad for relic which had been perpetuated throughout Anglo-American and Western European culture by the Romantic movement. As this movement converged into the Victorian era, the catalyst for mourning jewellery erupted with Queen Victoria's own personal mourning of her husband, Prince Albert. This gave rise to an entire industry dedicated to hairwork and mourning fashion. "It was very fashionable to wear portrait medallions as jewellery at the end of the 18th century and into the first two decades of the 19th century...these two were used for mourning or as love tokens"[9]. Painted portrait miniatures began to fade into obscurity as the invention of photography took favour, however, the inclusion of hair mounted on the reverse of these portraits remained popular into the late Victorian era.

The inclusion of hair within the mountings of portrait miniatures was to represent the sincerity of the sitter and was transformed into relic upon their death. Together these items serve as poignant and tangible connections to those who came before us. The popularity of hair being incorporated within portrait miniature works is a testament to the transformation of these items, from tangible aids used to accommodate political or economic alliances, to items representing deep love and loss.

[1] Sorabella, J 2007, Portraiture in Renaissance and Baroque Europe, Blog post, August 2007, viewed 20 June 2023; <http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/port/hd_port.htm>

[2] Sorabella, J 2007, Portraiture in Renaissance and Baroque Europe, Blog post, August 2007, viewed 20 June 2023; <http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/port/hd_port.htm>

[3] Zohn, K 2011, 'Tokens of imperfect affection: portrait miniatures and hairwork in sense and sensibility', Jane Austen Society of North America; vol. 32, no. 1, viewed 19 June 2023; Kristen Miller Zohn (jasna.org)

[4] Pointon, M 2001, 'Surrounded with brilliants: miniature portraits in eighteenth-century England'; The Art Bulletin, vol. 83, no.1, pp 48-71.

[5] Zohn, K 2011, 'Tokens of imperfect affection: portrait miniatures and hairwork in sense and sensibility', Jane Austen Society of North America; vol. 32, no. 1, viewed 19 June 2023; Kristen Miller Zohn (jasna.org)

[6] Sheumaker, H 2007, 'Love entwined: the curious history of hairwork in America', University of Pennsylvania Press, Pennsylvania. 

[7] Gollar, K 2017, 5 things you didn't know about hairwork and portrait miniatures; Blog post, 26 May 2017, viewed 20 June 2023; 5 Things You Didn’t Know about Hairwork and Portrait Miniatures - Cincinnati Art Museum

[8] Gollar, K 2017, 5 things you didn't know about hairwork and portrait miniatures; Blog post, 26 May 2017, viewed 20 June 2023; 5 Things You Didn’t Know about Hairwork and Portrait Miniatures - Cincinnati Art Museum

[9] Luthi, A 1998, 'Sentimental jewellery', Shire Publications Ltd, Oxford. 

Teaghan Hall is a Fine Art graduate with a special interest in portrait miniatures, mourning and hairwork jewellery. Teaghan works at Kalmar Antiques in Sydney, Australia and writes across  jewellery industry publications. @teaghantique

This is an edited version of an article published on Celine’s research notebook. Find the full article here. 

While reading Elizabeth Goldring’s new monograph on Nicholas Hilliard (1647-1619), I was most anxious to discover what she had written about my all-time favourite artist in Paris and what she may have discovered while I was researching the same topic at the same time. One note struck me, about Hilliard’s whereabouts in Saint-Germain des Prés, back in 1578 where he is supposed to hold a studio.



Fig. 1 Elizabeth Goldring’s new publication: Nicholas Hilliard: Life of an artist, Yale University press, 2019 © Yale University Press

Saint-Germain des Prés in the Late Sixteenth Century:

Sixteenth-century Paris was surrounded by city walls, built by Philippe-Auguste in the end of the twelfth century (Fig. 2 illustrated in blue). Within the walls, work and daily life were heavily regulated, whereas fewer rules applied outside the walls. This allowed foreigners, including Huguenots, to settle in the boroughs surrounding Paris, the most important one being Saint-Germain des Prés. 


Fig. 2 Sebastian Münster, Map of Paris and its surroundings, 1572. Source: Wikimedia Commons. In the lower right corner, Saint-Germain des Prés.

As a foreigner, and a protestant, there was no way that Hilliard could have set up a studio on his own. In order to settle down in Paris, a foreigner had to become a journeyman for a master for several years, and upon producing an œuvre and paying the corporation’s fees, he would have become a freeman of the corporation and set up his own workshop.

By working for the court, Hilliard did enjoy some privileges, as did almost all artists patronised by the royal family. He was able to work within Paris for some time, almost unobserved, which is why most of the extant works from this period are court or English embassy related - these miniatures being painted in a private circle and with the protection of the King’s brother or the ambassador. However, this protection seemed to end in March 1578 when the Duke of Alençon was preparing for war in Flanders, and having no need for a painter, released Hilliard (along with a great other number of valets) in order to surround himself with warlords and soldiers. It has been suggested that Hilliard would have worked for Louise de Lorraine (then likely to be in 1578) but no archival records have been found so far that can confirm this hypothesis. We must then suppose that, from March 1578, Hilliard was on his own in Paris and, as he explained to the English ambassador Sir Amyas Paulet, willing “to increase his knowledge by this voyage and upon hope to get a piece of money of the Lords and Ladies here…”.[1] It is at this point that Hilliard decided to set up a studio in Saint-Germain des Prés, where the presence of foreign and/or protestant artists, but also wealthy commissioners, was already established.


Fig. 3
‘Nicolas Beliart, painctre anglois en 1577’ Accounts of François d’Alençon (later copy and sum up), Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève, MS 848 © Céline Cachaud Mars 2019

Nicholas Hilliard’s Studio - Methodology:

In November 1578, Nicholas Hilliard is busted working as a goldsmith in Saint-Germain des Prés.[2] Hilliard was considered a painter, and as such he was not permitted to do goldsmith work in Paris or Saint-Germain des Prés, because they were both sworn professions. The guard’s report states that Hilliard refused that the guards enter his house and that in exchange he gave three fellins of gold.[3] This is the only time when Hilliard is considered as a goldsmith, but as a journeyman rather than a freeman.

The given address is quite precise: ‘aux faulx bourgs sainct Germain des prez prés le jeu de paulme des Canettes’. The rest of the affair is not known; Hilliard was supposed to appear and be judged but there has no more information on the matter. It is likely then that Hilliard fled the city or asked for Royal protection and then quickly came back to London. A boat, bringing the Wardrobe Master of Alençon, arrived in London on January 3rd 1579 to set up his master’s visit next year. Hilliard possibly returned to England with him or around the same period.

So where was Hilliard’s house? My research started with a street that exists today in Saint-Fermain de Prés called ‘rue des Canettes’. Then I looked for every ‘jeu de paulme’ - rackets court, but more generally a place where people would play (and gamble). I drew up a chart with all known rackets courts in the borough during the period Hilliard was in Paris (Fig. 4), but none could be found associated with an address of ‘Canettes’ in sixteenth-century Saint-Germain des Prés.



Fig. 4
Chart of the racket courts in Saint-Germain des Prés in the sixteenth century according to Berty’s Topographie historique du Vieux Paris © Céline Cachaud Septembre 2017

I decided to go back to the sources and maps. I checked that the main street mentioned in the report was indeed ‘Faulx bourgs Saint-Germain’, and considered that he may have lived on this street where several rackets courts are nearby (Fig. 5 illustrated in orange). The position would have been quite strategic, positioned in front of the city gate, allowing the Parisian guards (and not those from Saint-Germain des Prés) to extend their jurisdiction and visit Hilliard’s house. Also, it was one street away from where his friend and first ‘landlord’ (so to speak) lived.[4]


Fig. 5 Map of Saint Germain des Prés in 1609 said ‘Vassalieu map’ © Bibliothèque nationale de France et Céline Cachaud Septembre 2017

My research had ended here but then I read Goldring’s book. She suggests that the house would have been near the racket courts called ‘Les Trois Cygnes’ - which translates as ‘The Three Swans’, and the sign could have been misread by the guards as ‘ducklings’. I realized that, even though it’s included in my chart above (number 11), I had overlooked this one. Called The Three Swans between 1595 and 1623 and then The Three Ducklings from 1687 to 1728, the residence opened on the oriental side of the rue de Seine. How did I miss it? The archival records indicate the dates for this rackets court as from 20 years after Hilliard’s visit, so I had concluded the court may not have yet opened in the 1570s. Consequently, Hilliard may have lived further north on the faulx bourg or in the rue de Seine. It is an information that, unfortunately, will be almost impossible to confirm.



Fig. 6
Nicolas de Hoey, Saint Luke painting the Virgin and the Child, detail of the painter’s workshop, 1603, Musée des Beaux-Arts de Dijon © François Jay – MBA Dijon

So where did Hilliard live in 1578?:

The exact spot doesn’t really matter, especially as the entire borough has been rebuilt over and over again and the workshop is long gone. A great part of this area regularly visited and ravaged by the royal army in search of Protestants to kill, especially from 1572 until the end of the religious wars in 1594. According to Adolphe Berty, the borough was rebuilt in 1595, which is why very few records are kept from before this date. It is likely that the rackets court was rebuilt at the same time.

Saint-Germain des Prés was also a fashionable place to be in the sixteenth century. Lords would settle down in the North of the borough, allowing them to be close to the city while living in the ‘countryside’. Saint-Germain was also well positioned for it’s proximity to the Louvre – just a few minutes’ walk - where the artists would take their position at the royal court. They would then enjoy a freer environment, which is why a great number of painters lived there by the end of the sixteenth / early seventeenth century and beyond, including Jooris van der Straeten, Hieronymus Francke (a Flemish artist, later also Louise de Lorraine’s painter), Jacob Bunel (painter to Henri IV, and his wife) and limners such as Marguerite Bahuche, etc. It would then be very interesting to carry on the research on how limners used to work within the Saint-Germain’s legal framework, compared to the Parisian agreements. But that’s for another tale.

[1] Public Record Office (London), S.P. (France) 78/2/16.

[2] As a miniaturist using limners’ techniques, it is likely that Hilliard’s statue was quite complicated – limning and illuminating was a free profession, not subject to swear an oath as other painters did. Yet, the recent discovery of two panel portraits, likely to have been painted by Hilliard in France, support the idea that he was working under the statutes of the painters, hence a métier-juré.

[3] Fellins is a small measuring unit for gold, equivalent to around 1/24th of an ounce, that is to say 0,38g.

[4] Jooris van der Straeten, painter to Queen Louise de Lorraine, mentioned in his will of April 1577 that he lived in the ‘rue des Fossés’, in front of the city walls and a bridge away from the Louvre. If Hilliard would have become painter to the Queen, it is likely to be also through his friendship with Straeten, and his employment to Alençon, that it would have happened.

Céline Cachaud is a specialist of French and English Renaissance portrait miniatures, PhD student at University of Geneva and librarian at Musée du Louvre. Find Celine’s online research notebook here https://hilliyarde.hypotheses.org/ 

In 2014, the Philip Mould Gallery staged an exhibition of a single owner collection of forty-five portrait miniatures by John Smart (1741-1811) (Fig.1). Working with Lawrence Hendra, we scoured original birth and marriage certificates and read lists of all those who travelled to India while Smart worked there for a decade from 1785. Here we discovered that Smart was not born in Norfolk as previously assumed, but was instead a London boy – hailing from Soho and possibly the son of a peruke (wig) maker (which possibly explains his attention to the detail of his sitter’s hairstyles) (Fig.2). We also fact-checked Daphne Foskett’s 1964 biography and discovered that Smart’s personal life was somewhat erratic compared to the steady success of his professional life.[1]


Fig. 1
Image of the 2014 Exhibition ‘John Smart; A Genius Magnified’, held at the Philip Mould Gallery, Dover Street, London.

Lawrence and I paid the same attention to detail to the sitters in the collection. Scanning the multiple files in the Witt Library next to the Courtauld Gallery of Art, we were able to give many sitters back their lost identity. This work also included attempting to match the sitter’s with the drawings Smart prepared in advance of painting his miniatures. But there is always more to discover in the art world – and in checking a Christie’s sale catalogue of the 1960s I saw a familiar face staring back at me in black and white. When I read the description, I discovered that the first miniature we included in the exhibition catalogue – an exceptional and early work by the artist – had a name.


Fig. 2 Daily Advertiser on 12 and 17 November 1744, showing an advertisement by John Smart’s father, also called John. It appears that John Smart was born 20 January 1741, baptised 24 January 1741 to a John Smart and Mary, at St Luke’s, Old Street, Finsbury.

The miniature had in fact come directly from the collection of 4th Baron St. Oswald of Nostell (1916-1984), descended through the family of the man who had built Nostell Priory (now National Trust). It was mysteriously withdrawn on the day of the sale, so there is still further work on the provenance to discover where it had been between the sale and a German dealer named Karin Henninger-Tavcar, who sold it to a private collector in 1990. Wherever the miniature had been, it was now known to be of Sir Rowland Winn (1739-1785).


Fig. 3
John Smart (1741-1811), portrait of Sir Rowland Winn, 5th Bt. (1739-1785), dated 1767.
- The Limner Company

This particular miniature by John Smart had stood out in the collection which arrived at the Philip Mould gallery in 2014. Unusually well painted for this early year in Smart’s career, the sitter was also wearing exceptionally striking clothing of a pink coat, lined with lilac silk and trimmed with gold brocade, contrasting with a surprising bright blue waistcoat trimmed with the same ostentatious brocade. The lilac lining also matched the sitter’s hair, which had been powdered with a grey-lilac hue. Smart’s forensic attention to detail was evident in the miniscule knots which lined the length of the black silk ribbon used to tie the sitter’s ponytail. The sitter was clearly confident and fashionable – and undeniably rich.

Sir Rowland Winn, the sitter in the Smart portrait, was also painted by the Irish Hugh Douglas Hamilton (1739/40-1808) in the same year.[2] Here Sir Rowland wears an equally striking outfit of red jacket, pale turquoise waistcoat with gold brocade and yellow breeches. His wife, Sabine Louise d'Hervart (1734 -1798), stands next to him in an ermine-trimmed satin gown. The couple were painted in their newly-built home, Nostell Priory, and are shown in the library designed by Robert Adam with various pieces of furniture, including the important library table made by Thomas Chippendale. It is likely that the miniature by Smart was commissioned by Sir Rowland for his wife to wear. Their marriage had met with much opposition, with Sir Rowland’s family concerned with family reputation as Sabine was not only a widow but Swiss (i.e. foreign) to boot.


Fig. 4 Hugh Douglas Hamilton RHA (1739/40-1808), portrait of Sir Rowland Winn, 5th Bt (1739 - 1785) and his wife Sabine Louise d'Hervart (1734 -1798), c.1767-8. National Trust, Nostell Priory.

A neighbour, Catherine Cappe, claimed that ‘the peace of the [Winn] family’ was ‘entirely destroyed’ by the return of the newlyweds to Yorkshire. Sabine herself was very unhappy in Yorkshire, which she described as ‘one of the most desolate and gloomy corners of the universe’. The couple also had a house in St. James’s Square, London and Sir Rowland may have been introduced to the young John Smart there.

Sabine was also a pioneering textile artist, which may also explain her husband’s remarkable outfit. Left alone for long periods at Nostell, she used unconventional fabrics for her own clothes (and possibly her husband’s), covered expensive Chippendale chairs in avantgarde styles and produced her own ‘dressed’ prints using experimental fabrics (fig.5). Sabine broke with social convention in conversing and corresponding directly with tradespeople, making her a pioneer in craft as an aristocratic woman of the 1760s.[3]


Fig. 5
A ‘dressed’ print by Sabine Winn (Nostell Priory, Yorkshire, National Trust).

The fact that this portrait remained in the family for almost two hundred years is testament to the importance of miniatures as highly personal works of art. It is also testament to Winn’s patronage of the most highly regarded artists and craftsmen – including Hugh Douglas Hamilton, Robert Adam and Thomas Chippendale. He chose to take a risk on the (then) little-known artist for his most intimate portrait, but it appears this was well-justified, as Smart clearly delivered one of the most highly-detailed and captivating portraits of his career.

1] Smart’s first wife, Marianne Howard, eloped to Rome with the artist William Pars, leaving Smart to raise their two daughters and possibly a third child, who likely died young. After this, Smart married a further two times, fathering a total of six children over the course of his various relationships.

2] For more on this portrait see A. Laing, 'Sir Rowland and Lady Winn: A Conversation Piece in the Library at Nostell Priory' Apollo, April 2000, pp.14-18.

3] For more on the fascinating Sabine, listen to curator Serena Dyer’s podcast (https://warwick.ac.uk/fac/arts/history/ecc/archive/emforum/projects/brieflives/sabinne_winn/ ) or read her book, Women Makers and Consumer Culture in the 18th Century, published by Bloomsbury in 2021.

A particularly magnificent ring depicting George III (1738-1820) by Jeremiah Meyer (1735-1789) [RCIN 422280] is currently on display at The Queen’s Gallery in an exhibition titled Style & Society: Dressing the Georgians. Meyer was a founding member of the Royal Academy and one of the most celebrated miniaturists of the 18th century having been appointed miniature painter to Queen Charlotte (1744-1818) in 1764 and enamellist to George III a decade later. His works were renowned for their precision and were described by a contemporary critic to ‘excel all others in pleasing Expression, Variety of Tints and Freedom of Execution’.

Wearable miniatures like this ring reached an apex of popularity during the Georgian and Victorian eras where they graced the hands, wrists and décolletages of members from the highest echelons of society. The present ivory miniature, encircled by a ring of diamonds, was given by King George III, alongside other exquisite pieces of jewellery, to his new wife to wear on their wedding day on 8th September 1761. The exhibition held at the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace displays this ring alongside other extraordinary historical pieces ranging from royal gowns to formal portraits, highlighting it and other wearable miniatures as integral accessories to the most important of outfits during the Hanoverian period.

That being said, wearable miniatures were widely favoured from as early as the 16th century when Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603) commissioned numerous pieces of jewellery for courtiers bearing her likeness. One delicate example is a pendant miniature of the Queen by Nicholas Hilliard (1547-1619) from circa 1585 [fig. 1].  The size of this token suggests that was possibly worn as an earring, which became a popular fashion towards the end of the sixteenth century and often only worn in one ear.


Pendant with portrait miniature of Queen Elizabeth I by Nicholas Hilliard, Royal Collection Trust
Fig. 1 Nicholas Hilliard (1547-1619), Pendant with a miniature of Elizabeth I, circa. 1585-1600 
© Royal Collection Trust.

During the English Civil War however, wearable miniatures served an alternative diplomatic purpose and rings displaying the profile of Charles I (1600-1649) were distributed amongst Royalist supporters to display their sponsorship of the monarchy. Similar political rings set with the portrait of William III (1650-1702) [fig. 2] were received by members of his Court and continued to act as signs of loyalty during the reigns of George II (1683-1760) and George III (1738-1820).[1]


Gold ring with portrait miniature of King William III
Fig. 2 English School, circa 1702, William III, King of England (1650 – 1702), watercolour on ivory set into the bezel of a gold ring - The Limner Company

Towards the end of the 18th century, the setting of miniatures became increasingly opulent and artists often worked with jewellers to surround their portraits in a halos of pearls or precious stones. Wearable miniatures continued to be given and received as gifts, however, instead as declarations of political loyalty, they were more commonly exchanged as tokens of friendship and affection. Perhaps the most intimate of these forms were lover’s eyes - see for example, an eye miniature in the collection of the Victoria & Albert Museum [P.56-1977]. Unlike other portrait miniatures, these dainty pieces only portrayed an eye and were often no larger than a fingernail creating a deeply intimate impression in their emulation of the romantic gaze. Central to this allure and effect was the mystery surrounding the seemingly anonymous identity of their sitters. Concealed by a closely-cropped composition, the meaning behind lover’s eyes was exceedingly personal and the pieces were intended to be held close to the wearer in brooches, rings or pendants.

Other examples of wearable miniatures were not always as elusive as lover’s eyes and, as portable forms of wealth, prominently adorned the wrists, dress and décolletages of their aristocratic wearers. One piece in particular that stands out is the five stringed pearl and portrait miniature bracelet featured in a painting by Anton Raphael Mengs (1728-1779) of Maria Luisa of Spain (1745-1792) [fig. 3]. Painted upon the event of Maria’s marriage to Leopold, the Grand Duke, in 1764, this magnificent portrait was intended to portray her immense wealth and beauty.[2]  The pearl stringed miniature, which presumably depicts a portrait of Leopold, hanging from Maria’s left wrist only further communicates this point, particularly as the Duchess’s right hand touches the piece and further draws the viewer’s eye to its opulence.


Marriage portrait of María Luisa of Spain wearing portrait miniature bracelet
Fig. 3 Anton Raphael Mengs (1728-1779), María Luisa of Spain, 1764, oil on canvas. Collection: The Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. © The Kunsthistorisches Museum

During the 18th century, a string of pearls that matched in size and colour would often command a greater price than jewels and it therefore comes as no surprise that such an accessory was to be given great attention by the artist in his painting of the newly married Duchess. Such a style was not exclusive to the continent, and Queen Victoria was widely portrayed by artists wearing an ornamental enamel portrait of her beloved Prince Albert upon her wrist in many state portraits both before and after his death in 1861. 

In many ways, the very nature of portrait miniatures meant that they were inextricably associated with jewellery from their advent in the 16th century. Dainty and portable, their practical size and shape encouraged a plethora of wearable possibilities. Whether this was to display political loyalty or personal affection, wearable miniatures told a story and today, whether they survive on their own or as a painting within a painting, offer historians a fascinating insight into the symbolic importance of jewellery in the centuries predating photography and commercial printing. 

1] Diane Scarisbrick elaborates further on the political use of rings in her book Rings: Symbols of Wealth, Power and Affection, Thames and Hudson, London, 1993, p. 127

2] Maria went onto become Holy Roman Empress when Leopold succeeded the position on the death of his childless brother Joseph II in 1790.

Bethany Perry is a freelance researcher and writer based in London. She previously worked for Sotheby's in their Impressionist & Modern and Modern British Art Departments and prior to that was a Graduate Intern at Philip Mould & Co. Contact: bethanygperry@gmail.com.

History often throws up some bizarre links, but one of the most unlikely must be the connection between a seventeenth century ambassador in Constantinople (now Istanbul) and the novelist Jane Austen.


Fig. 1 Jacques-Antoine Arlaud, portrait of James Brydges, 8th Baron Chandos, Turkish Ambassador 1781-84. Photography: Simon Bevan. 

In researching the fascinating portrait of James Brydges, 8th Baron Chandos [Fig.1/2], I came across a letter said to have been previously owned by Cassandra Austen [Fig.3]. Dated 1686, the letter was written from Constantinople by James’s wife Elizabeth to her twenty-one year old daughter, Mary. Clearly living a life of high extravagance with her parents abroad, rumours had obviously reached Turkey which had alarmed her parents. In a tone familiar to all parents Eliza vents her rage on her daughter’s spending and the fact that it has reported that she looks like a ‘bartlemew-babby’ (a ‘Bartholomew baby’ refers to the cheap dolls sold at the famous annual Bartholomew Fair). As Mary had been left behind to find a good match in a husband (and hope to solve some of the financial issues which had compelled her father to take up his role as ambassador in the first place) she was in a great deal of trouble.


Fig. 2
British School, Sir James Brydges (1642–1714), 8th Baron Chandos, Turkey Company Ambassador to Constantinople- Government Art Collection

Luckily, Mary did marry – Theophilus Leigh (1643-1725)– an ancestor of Cassandra Leigh, Austen’s mother. Mary was the great-grandmother of Jane Austen – her maternal grandfather being the Reverend Thomas Leigh, rector of Harpsden in Berkshire. His daughter married the Rev. George Austen and among their seven children were two daughters, Jane, the writer, and Cassandra.

Not only do the Leigh and Austen family maintain a strong connection during Jane’s lifetime (her mother possibly enjoying the social status that a link to a once noble family would bring), but Jane’s writing is peppered with names which relate to Leigh/ Chandos family. James Brydges’s first wife was named Cassandra (née Willoughby 1670–1735) [Fig.4] and his third wife Lydia Vanhatten (bap. 1693, d. 1750) (Cassandra becoming a popular Austen name).

Fig. 3
A copy of the 1686 letter in the British Library (Add MS 42180) from Elizabeth Brydges, Lady Chandos, wife of James Brydges, which was once in the possession of the Austen family. The letter is accompanied by a note of authentication in the hand of Cassandra Elizabeth Austen, sister of Jane.

Other names from the Brydges/ Leigh line make appearances in Jane’s works - the name Lydia was of course used in Pride and Prejudice, while John Willoughby appears in the 1811 novel Sense and Sensibility. It was not just the names from the family which influenced her prose, but also the personal experience of being the ‘poor relations’ – so close to wealth and influence, yet never quite benefitting from it (many of Jane’s novels explore this theme - from Sense and Sensibility to Mansfield Park). Even more specifically, Northanger Abbey reflects a storyline from Mary Brydges’s own life – when her mother wrote to her in 1686, she was recovering from her thwarted love for the wealthy future Lord Tilney. This is echoed in chapter ten of Northanger Abbey, where Catherine has discovered that Henry Tilney is to be at the cotillion ball the following day. Frustratingly she cannot dress to impress, as her great aunt had lectured her ‘Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before…’.

Places found in Jane’s novels also connect to the family – we know that the novelist visited her Leigh family in Adlestrop several times, with some believing that the setting of Mansfield Park is partly drawn from the Gloucestershire village.



Fig. 4
James Brydges (1674–1744) is shown with his wife and their two sons- National Gallery of Canada 4295

Kneller's 1713 portrait of the Chandos family is believed to show Cassandra, rather than the Duke's first wife, who was the mother of the two children in the picture.

A final connection can be found in a name which will be well-known to Austen devotees. Brook Edward Bridges (a modernisation of the name Brydges), was also a descendant of the Chandos line – and he formed a romantic attachment to Jane. His feelings were made clear to Jane through a simple act of knowing kindness when he made ‘a point of ordering toasted cheese for supper entirely on my account’ (Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen, 27 August 1805), during a visit to Godmersham, Edward Austen's estate in Kent. Knowing the author’s favourite dish was a way to her heart, the Austen scholar Deirdre Le Faye, in Jane Austen: A Family Record, states, ‘it seems possible that Edward Bridges proposed or attempted to propose to [Austen during her visit], . . . a proposal which she had no difficulty in politely rejecting.’

The century which separates the Chandos family link with Jane Austen throws up some intriguing links between the two – and connects elements of Austen’s writing and personal life which are little known. I have a feeling she would have enjoyed seeing the seventeenth century portrait miniature of her bearded relation dressed in an incongruous blend of a turban and ermine-trimmed robes.

As a conservator of portrait miniatures it is vital to understand how miniatures were painted and what materials were used in their making. This knowledge serves to clarify how they can best be conserved for future generations.



Miniatures from the 16th and early 17th centuries were painted in watercolour and bodycolour on vellum, usually stuck down onto a piece of playing card. The vellum is fine animal skin taken from aborted calves, which is hairless and therefore smooth. Bodycolour is simply watercolour made opaque by adding a higher ratio of pigment to the gum Arabic binder than with normal transparent watercolour. This bodycolour can be clearly seen in areas such as the thickly painted lace and ruffs of Tudor miniatures. Flaking is quite common in these areas as the paint layer dries out over time. Consolidation – using an inert adhesive - can arrest this problem.
In the 17th century, artists began to stick the vellum down into tablebook leaf rather than playing cards. Tablebook leaf is card which has been coated on both sides with a thin layer of gesso (a mixture of chalk and animal glue). These leaves were made into books so that merchants could write on them in pencil or a metal point – hence the name. Occasionally, with these miniatures, the gesso layer can flake causing the vellum to delaminate. Again, this problem can be solved with careful consolidation and re-attachement of the vellum.

The most significant change in materials occurred at the beginning of the 18th century when Rosalba Carriera (1675-1757) began to use ivory as a support rather than vellum. These early ivory miniatures are quite stable as the ivory is quite thick but as the 18th century progressed, the translucency of the ivory was exploited by cutting it more thinly and hence it was stuck down onto white paper or card to stabilise it and to retain its ‘whiteness’.

The thin ivory can react to changes in humidity and temperature so it is important to keep one’s miniatures in relatively stable conditions – for example away from radiators and from direct sunlight. If miniatures are kept locked away in safes for security reasons be sure to check them with a magnifying glass. Careful handling and regular checking will ensure that your miniatures remain in optimum condition.

“Limning is a thing apart from all other Painting or drawing and tendeth not to comon mens use”
 - Nicholas Hilliard, A Treatise Concerning the Arte of Limning, circa 1600