 Hello, I'm Martin Porcel. Welcome to this, the fourth talk in the public lecture series for Summer 2020, The Artist as Intellectual, a self-portrait as president of the Royal Academy by Joshua Reynolds. The focus of this talk is the self-portrait Reynolds painted on the occasion of the move of the Royal Academy to New Somerset House in 1780. The self-imaging projects is not that of an artist, but a man of intellect, a scholar, dressed in a plum-coloured suit in doctoral robes, holding in his hand a scroll of paper rather than a paintbrush, as one might expect. The picture was immediately on its completion, placed on permanent display at Somerset House. There it performed a public function, confirming Reynolds' position as president of the Royal Academy and the leading figure in the community of artists belonging to that institution. It was displayed in the assembly room with a pendant portrait of the architect of New Somerset House, William Chambers, who also held a post of treasurer at the Royal Academy. In truth, there was little love lost between the two men. For while Chambers enjoyed the King's favour and engaged in private architectural projects for George III, Reynolds was anathema, or as the King himself stated war bluntly, he was poison in our sight. At this point in his career, however, the King's favour meant little to Reynolds, who had the world at his feet. Reynolds' self-portrait was clean some years ago, rejuvenated by the removal of two centuries of accumulated grime. As a result, it exudes more than ever an air of swaggering self-confidence. Even the bust of Michelangelo seems to not indeference to Reynolds' achievements, something which I've always found quite amusing. Reynolds' poses adopted from Van Dyke, yet the overwhelming debt was to Rembrandt, not least in the dramatic presentation of the head and the black velvet cap, silhouetted against a plain light background. Indeed, Rembrandt is an artist we'll be returning to in the course of this talk. An engraving of the portrait by the prominent printmaker Valentine Green was published on 1 December 1780. The inscription reads, So Joshua Reynolds, Knight, President of the Royal Academy, Member of the Imperial Academy of Florence, Doctor of Laws of the Universities of Oxford and Dublin and Fellow of the Royal Society. The engraved image, the inscription on which matched the rhetoric of the painted image, confirms Reynolds' public stature as the leader of a British school of art. Indeed, the promotion of nationhood and national role models in the visual arts was a central theme in Reynolds' inaugural address, his ninth discourse, Summerset House, on the 16th of October 1780. It will be, he stated, no small addition to the glory which this nation has already acquired from having given birth to eminent men in every part of science if it should be enabled to produce, in consequence of this institution, a school of English artists. A school, it might be said, with Reynolds in the role of headmaster. In the exhibition, Joshua Reynolds, The Creation of Celebrity, which I curated at Tate Britain in 2005, we included over half a dozen self-portraits by Reynolds, as well as depictions of Reynolds by other artists, including this bust, sculpted by Giuseppe Cioracchi, made around the same time as the self-portrait. The bust, which is now also in the collection of the Royal Academy, originally belonged to Reynolds, and it may have been commissioned by him. It forms a useful comparison with the Royal Academy self-portrait. Modelled upon anti-classical imperial busts, it endows Reynolds with a heroic air, a tribute to his status as a modern philosopher, an intellectual who thinks about art as well as practising it. The classical format of the bust, with its tight curls of hair and toga, conformed to Reynolds's own views of sculpture as expressed in his 10th Discourse on Art, delivered to the Royal Academy in December 1780, where he upheld the superiority of idealised forms over those that conveyed detailed naturalism. Well, having provided an immediate context for the Royal Academy self-portrait, I'd like now to provide some insights into how it emerged by looking back over Reynolds's career at the various images he created of himself over a period of half a century, a total of 30 or so paintings and drawings, some well-known, others not so. As we will see, Reynolds had an abiding fascination with his own face, and particularly the persona he presented to the outside world. Collectively, his self-portraits comprise a kind of visual autobiography. At the same time, they relate principally to Reynolds's public life, his position in society, and the honours he accrued. The earliest known self-portrait is this chalk drawing from around 1740, when Reynolds was aged 17, made presumably just after he had become apprenticed in London to the artist Thomas Hudson. He scrutinises himself with a steady gaze, concentrating his effort upon his facial features and his flowing shoulder-length locks of hair. Not perhaps the most handsome of men, but certainly very presentable. On the reverse side of the drawing is a study of the figure of Diana in red chalk, clearly an academic exercise. Notice the blue paper, which is the original colour of the sheet. In the drawing featuring Reynolds, the paper has faded to grey. The reason being is that it was subjected to daylight when it was framed, not by the artist himself, but by a subsequent owner, who appreciated its value as a record of the now celebrated artist as he had appeared as a young man. I suspect, however, that when the self-portrait drawing was made originally, it may have been conceived as an afterthought on the reverse of the academic sheet. The tradition of self-portrait drawing, which Reynolds absorbed through the pedagogy of his master, Thomas Hudson, had been handed down to Hudson by his own master, Jonathan Richardson, whose daughter he also married. Here on the left is one of the many self-portrait drawings made by Richardson, and on the right in red chalks on blue paper, a drawing of Hudson in his early 20s by Richardson. The link between the three artists goes beyond a common thread of portrait drawings to a shared interest in drawings by old masters. Richardson's important collection passing from him to Hudson and then to Reynolds, who continued to gain inspiration from these drawings throughout his career. Reynolds was also deeply influenced by Richardson's writings on art, which played a significant role in his own ambition to succeed as a writer and a thinker, as well as a painter. Although Reynolds terminated his apprenticeship with Hudson prematurely after only a few years, they remained on good terms, as Reynolds set about establishing an independent career. This is the earliest known self-portrait produced by Reynolds, made in his early 20s, as he moved back and forth between London and his native home in Devon. It remained with him throughout his life, and until recently it was in the possession of one of his descendants. Van Dyke has been suggested as a possible influence upon the portrait, although, as the art historian Lawrence Gowing was the first to observe, Reynolds may have been inspired by a self-portrait by Godfrey Kneller, which was at the time at Woebin Abbey. Reynolds would almost certainly have known it not at first hand, but via an engraving made from it by Isaac Beckett. Compositionally, the two works have much in common in terms of pose, demeanor, costume, and the focus of light upon the face in an otherwise darkened picture surface. Although it's slightly difficult to pick out, Reynolds has also introduced the device of the fictive bust within a novel surround, a common trope in such portraits of the period. As with the influence of Richardson in the self-portrait drawing, Kneller, then still a towering presence in British art, despite his death some 20 years earlier, was an artist to be admired and emulated. Reynolds's rapid development during the 1740s, both technically and in terms of his imaginative approach to portraiture, is nowhere better demonstrated than in this self-portrait of around 1748. Here, Reynolds relies on the inspiration of an artist of far greater stature than either Richardson or Kneller, namely Rembrandt, whom he was studying intently at this time through paintings, drawings, and engravings. This self-portrait is, in my opinion, among the most creative responses to the art of Rembrandt produced by any artist of the period. It's a painting that brims with self-confidence and self-belief, and one which demonstrates at a stroke that Reynolds's concept of imitation went far beyond mere copying. Here, he quite literally casts himself in the persona of an artist of vision, creating a shadow across his eyes with his hand and drawing upon the art of the past to peer into his own future. The oblong format of the portrait is also unusual, leading to a previous assumption that the composition had at some stage been cut down. However, the reason for the format is more straightforward. Reynolds having taken a standard 30 by 25 inch canvas used for head and shoulders portraits and turned it on its side, thus literally giving himself elbow room to accommodate his outstretched left arm and right hand holding his palette and brushes. In 1749, shortly after making this portrait, which may have been conceived as a kind of visual right of passage, Reynolds travelled to Italy. There, shortly after his arrival in Rome, he made this self-portrait drawing dated May 1750. The subject clearly looks like Reynolds, reminding us of the self-portrait drawing made 10 years earlier, and it exudes his customary air of confidence. Yet, when it was acquired by the British Museum from a London art dealer in 1897, it was identified speculatively as a self-portrait by a friend of Reynolds, John Astley. who had studied with him under Hudson. This in itself tells us that we know rather more about the appearance of the young Reynolds than was known a century or so ago. Also made in Rome, about the same time as the drawing, was this painted self-portrait. Unlocated for many years, I first set eyes on the walls of a London auction house nearly 20 years ago, when it was labelled as a portrait of an unknown artist. I sensed that it must in fact be a self-portrait by Reynolds, and its correct identity established. It was acquired by the Yale Centre for British Art. We don't know the painting's early history, but there's an intriguing story told by Reynolds' pupil James Northgate, who himself later visited Rome. As Northcote recounted, and he says, there was an extraordinary fine portrait of Reynolds painted by himself when in his studies in that city, and left by him in the house where he lodged at that time. It's quite probable that this was the portrait in question. If so, was it simply abandoned, or was it presented to a friend? I don't think so. More likely, I think, is that Reynolds decided quite deliberately to leave the painting as a substitute for his living presence, reminding those who lodged there later that they were following in his footsteps. In Italy, Reynolds, as one might expect, paid close attention to celebrated Italian masters such as Raphael, Titian and Tindoretto. He also continued to cultivate his abiding interest in Rembrandt. This picture, now in the collection of the Reich's Museum, but then housed in the Palazzo Corsini, captivated Reynolds sufficiently for him to make a copy from it, in April 1750, just after he'd arrived in Rome. A second self-portrait, quite probably made by Reynolds in Rome, was this painting, which Reynolds' friend and biographer Edmund Lohm described as, I quote, the Manor of Rembrandt, which it most definitely is. This one, if it was made in Rome, accompanied Reynolds back to England and remained with him for the rest of his life. Reynolds returned to England from Italy in 1752. The trip marked a watershed in his career, not least as he was keen to impress upon his peers and upon his patrons that he'd been to Europe and that his art drew freely upon European as well as native British traditions. This self-portrait was painted probably just after his return. Again, Rembrandt provides the principal inspiration in terms of the modelling of the face and the strong contrasts of light and shade. It also possesses a directness of gaze which anticipates, by some decades, the Royal Academy portrait of 1780. According to James Northcott, this was the portrait that most resembled Reynolds in life, although I must confess that like so many of Reynolds' self-portraits, the real character of the person behind the portrait remains elusive. And unlike Rembrandt, who used his self-portrait at times to convey emotions and anxieties, Reynolds seldom gives much away. Now in the collection of the Tate, in the 19th century, owners included the celebrated artist Thomas Lawrence, himself a president of the Royal Academy, and the politician and twice prime minister, Sir Robert Peale. To own a self-portrait by Reynolds was clearly a mark of true connoisseurship. A key function of the self-portrait for Reynolds was self-promotion. We also know from the evidence of quite a few unfinished compositions that he continued to paint his portrait for practice, as in the present painting which only emerged recently hitherto unknown from a private collection. Whether it was simply abandoned or whether it was put aside due to the pressure of commercial commitments, we don't know, but in its incomplete state it possesses a real vitality, almost a speaking likeness as if Reynolds is opening his mouth, about to engage in conversation with the viewer. Reynolds was, we know, a highly sociable individual. He loved to entertain, and he loved to be entertained by both male and female friends. Yet, although he encouraged conversation, the evidence of those who knew him indicates that he generally preferred to listen than to speak, as we see in this satirical drawing of him seated with fellow artist Angelica Kaufman. Here, in an unusually informal portrait by Kaufman, his friend, and as it were rumoured, his would-be lover, Reynolds sits listening, his crooked fingers bending forward his right ear. Reynolds was famously hard of hearing, his deafness, he claimed, being brought on by a chill court through spending too long in the Sistine Chapel, admiring Michelangelo's great creation. Clothed in fancy dress, a so-called van die costume, Reynolds poses by a pile of books and papers, a clear reference to his literary ambitions and accomplishments. This was before he even began to compose his celebrated discourses at the Royal Academy. His status as an artist is referenced through the easel propped up behind him, while the same bust of the Divine Michelangelo that appears in his later self-portrait emerges here from the shadows, as if whispering words of encouragement into his shell-like ear. In May 1766, Reynolds was elected as a member of the Society of Dilitanti, an exclusive coterie of collectors and connoisseurs from the upper echelons of society. As Horace Walpole had commented famously some 20 years earlier, it was a club for which the nominal qualification is having been in Italy, and the real one being drunk. To mark his election, Reynolds presented a self-portrait, which still belongs to the Dilitanti Society. He painted another version, which he retained for himself. It was this portrait that he used to advertise the knighthood he received in 1769, following his election as first president of the Royal Academy. As we can see here in the inscription on the engraving made from it, Sir Joshua Reynolds. Here, Sir Joshua, as he was now known, is depicted just left of centre in Zoffery's enthralling portrait of the Royal Academy, exhibited at the RA in 1772. Reynolds' election as president of the Royal Academy marked a watershed in his career, confirming his preeminent position in the community of artists and in society in general. It also launched his career as a public speaker and as a writer, as he commenced his series of annual and later biennial discourses, in which he articulated his views on theory of art, the education of the artist, and the relationship between contemporary art and past traditions. Attired in a smart black velvet court suit, a court sword at his side to signify his knighthood, Reynolds is depicted by Zoffery in the act of conversation, his left hand gesturing as if to make a point, his right hand supporting his silver ear trumpet, adverting to his hardness of hearing. To the right, rubbing his chin is Dr William Hunter, professor of anatomy at the Royal Academy, his presence indicating the significant dialogue on the relative roles of art and science within the Academy, something in which Reynolds and Hunter agreed politely to disagree. Although Reynolds was in general on good terms with his fellow academicians, his immediate circle of friendships lay beyond the parameters of the Academy, with celebrated cultural luminaries such as Samuel Johnson, Oliver Goldsmith, Edmund Burke and David Carrick. These men formed the nucleus of his intellectual circle and it was in the context of these friendships that Reynolds was invited by the brewer, Henry Thrail, to paint a series of portraits to decorate his library in Streatham, South London. The writer Fanny Burney, who was a self-affirmed Reynolds, nicknamed the portraits the Streatham Worthies, in reference to the Temple of Worthies in the grounds of Stowe Buckinghamshire, containing sculpted busts of celebrated figures from English history, including Shakespeare, Milton, Locke and Elizabeth I. In each portrait, painted by Reynolds, he chose to express a particular character trait. In his own portrait, he depicted himself cupping his ear, a reference to his customary role as listener and to his partial deafness. This, however, we must remember was a private portrait, painted for intimate company and far removed from the image that Reynolds wished to promote in public. The Streatham portrait differed from the majority of self-portraits produced by Reynolds during the 1770s, and that he wore the clothing he adopted in everyday life. From now on, he more usually chose to wear the academic gown he acquired on being awarded an honorary doctorate in civil law by the University of Oxford in July 1773. He modelled it for the first time in this self-portrait, presented to the Corporation of Plimpton during the occasion of his being elected mayor a few months later. The paint surface of the self-portrait of Reynolds in his newly acquired Doctoral robes was barely dry when he dispatched it hurriedly to Plimpton to be displayed in the Corporation dining room. As Nicholas Penny has observed, it presided that the mayor's feasts had once an apology for his absence and a substitute for his presence. The function of the picture can be seen, therefore, to anticipate the role played by the portrait he produced for the Royal Academy towards the end of the same decade. While his election as mayor of his local town afforded Reynolds a great deal of personal pleasure and in turn reflected well upon the local corporation, its significance was overshadowed by the invitation Reynolds received in 1775 to present his portrait to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence to hang in the corridor of artists' self-portraits. As the number of related unfinished compositions testify, Reynolds put a great deal of time and effort into this production. Again, he donned his Doctoral robes, this time with the addition of the cap, drawing inspiration for the composition from portraits by Van Dyke and Rembrandt. In his right hand, he held a scrolled drawing by Michelangelo, upon which he had inscribed Henry del Divino, on the reverse, using his paintbrush. Reynolds scrawled in Latin an entire list of the public honours he'd received to date, including his knighthood, his presidency of the Royal Academy, his doctorate, his membership of the Royal Society, his fellowship of the Society of Antiquaries, his membership of the Florentine Academy and his mayoral position at Plybden, just in case anyone was in any doubt about his qualifications, beyond that of being an artist. According to the keeper of the Florentine Gallery, Reynolds' portrait was received almost as if it was a holy relic, while Zophany, also then in Florence, could not apparently refrain from running to embrace it. Although he also told people that it would soon fade and appear quite dreadful. So much for friends. The portrait of 1780 was the culmination of Reynolds' self-assessment as an artist, an intellectual, and it was painted at the peak of his fame. It's the defining image of his presidency, but it was by no means the final self-portrait. A few years later, he depicted himself in the guise of a shepherd. In a design, he made for painted window at New College Oxford, appearing alongside the glass painter Thomas Gervus. This is the window itself, with Reynolds and Gervus in the upper register at the left-hand side. You might just be able to pick them out. It was not, it must be admitted, an unqualified success. In the late 1780s, as his eyesight faded, Reynolds produced this portrait, which after his death his niece presented to George Prince of Wales. The image is strikingly different to the Royal Academy portrait, depicting Reynolds, as his friend Edmund Malone commented, exactly as he appeared in his latter days in domestic life. This was not a public image, and the fact that he presented versions to Malone and his other great friend Edmund Burke suggests that it was intended as a personal keepsake. It's also the only self-portrait in which he depicts himself wearing spectacles, which he used in later life when painting. Spectacles, of course, connote impaired eyesight. They can also be associated with vision and intellect. Thus, Reynolds' decision to depict himself in spectacles was, I think, not simply to portray himself as he appeared in daily life, but to present an image of an artist philosopher and a man of vision. In the summer of 1789, failing sight in his left eye compelled Reynolds to stop painting, and by the time of his death in February 1792, he was virtually blind. Reynolds was interred with full state honours in the crypt of St Paul's Cathedral. Twenty years later, his niece succeeded in erecting a monument to his memory in the crossing. At the insistence of his niece, the sculptor, John Flaxman, portrayed him in his doctoral robes, with one hand touching a pedestal on which was portrayed the face of Michelangelo, while in the other hand he held a copy of his discourses, a deliberate echo of the self-portrait which Reynolds had painted for the Royal Academy. Early in the 1930s, a quite different image of Reynolds was placed in the four-quarter of the Royal Academy at Burlington House Piccadilly, in the form of a bronze statue by Alfred Drury. Here he was portrayed unashamedly as a painter, a far more sprightly figure than he ever presented to his contemporaries. His statue continues to greet visitors to the Academy to this day. In 1973, on the 250th anniversary of his birth, the Royal Mail commemorated Reynolds with a first-day cover, featuring Drury's statue and Reynolds' own self-portrait in the form of a three-pen stamp, an indication of how much Reynolds' reputation was linked intrinsically to his public persona and the self-portrait. 2023 will mark the 300th anniversary of the birth of Reynolds. Exactly what form the commemoration will take, I'm not certain, although I suspect that once more it will be Reynolds' iconic self-image that sets the agenda and provokes further debate about this most enigmatic artist.