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New
York, Upper East Side.
It was a rainy
Saturday, just after
midnight, at Gallery
899 in The Met Fifth
Avenue. I was walking,
holding my china cup
filled with Sri Lankan
tea, when I came across
a man crying in front
of the portrait
"Madame X,"
painted by John Singer
Sargent in 1884. He was
wearing a red
full-length robe de
chambre, a kind of
cardinal's attire,
unusual for the
occasion. He had black
hair and a well-trimmed
beard, which I could
see thanks to his face
and the thin fingers,
his only exposed
features. That strange
man shed tears and
sobbed in front of the
painting of Virginie
Amélie Avegno Gautreau.
Slowly, I approached
him but remained
silent, respecting his
moment. A few seconds
later, he stopped
crying and looked at
me. I gently offered my
handkerchief, which he
politely refused. Then
I murmured, "Did you
know this woman?" He
replied with an air of
nostalgia, staring at
his hands, "These hands
have traveled through
intimate paths inside a
carnal wetness that no
one ever imagined
reaching." So, my mind
was filled with many
libidinous thoughts.
The bearded man
continued dramatically,
like an actor playing
King Lear in Act III,
Scene 2, where the king
rages against his
daughters' betrayal. To
heighten the intensity,
he stepped closer to
the lamp, perhaps so I
could see him better,
and spoke from the
depths of his being:
"This woman was my
disgrace… I could
have been with any
woman but her… I
envy my fingers…
they touched her…
and this elevated my
soul to what can be
defined as the supreme
magic of pleasure,
covering and disguising
my professional
act… I envy
everything that came
close to her—her
clothes, her shoes, her
jewelry, and above all,
her towels that wrapped
her and felt the heat
of her naked body. My
misfortune was that I
never got there…
Not as I longed…"
That's when I realized
who that lovesick man
was and said to him
that I thought he and
Virginie Amélie Avegno
Gautreau had gone
beyond it all. He
replied quickly, "My
hands just got
there… however,
they weren't my hands,
but the gynecologist's
hands."
"I presume you are
being a little
dramatic," I
affirmed. Then he said,
"Perhaps it must
be because of the time
I spent with Sarah
Bernhardt." At
that moment, he looked
at me and asked,
"Who are
you?" I replied,
"I'm an
Impressionist Man,
whose life never came
to life because John
Singer Sargent locked
me in his mind. I would
have been his most
important portrait. It
never happened. Now, I
wander around the
world's museums,
trying to find… I
don't know what."
So, Dr. Samuel-Jean de
Pozzi looked at me with
an expression of
contempt and pity.
Without a word, he
walked away until he
disappeared before
leaving the room,
probably returning to
the Hammer Museum in
Los Angeles, where his
portrait, also painted
by Sargent in 1881, is
permanently on display.
I remained there,
standing before the
portrait of Madame X,
trying to comprehend
all the things that
would never happen to
me because of John
Singer Sargent, who had
dreamed of me as an
Impressionist but left
me in the limbo of his
mind. I am a portrait
that will not exist.
Thus, as I hold my
china cup filled with
tea, I will look over
and over again at all
the paintings of Mr.
Sargent in this
exhibition at The Met,
all those portraits
that express feelings
through their hands. I
am an Impressionist
man, and my fleeting
idea is to believe in
the supremacy of
nothing.
END
*
Exhibition
: Sargent and Paris
Location
: The Met Fifth Avenue, Gallery 899, New York City
Onview
through August 3, 2025.
https://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/sargent-and-paris
Note: The
portrait "Dr. Pozzi at
Home" is currently
owned by the Hammer
Museum in Los Angeles,
California.
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