George Stubbs: 50 Chapters of an Imagined Biography

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

ART AND ARTISTS

STUBBS and JOHN COZENS

STUBBS and THE POCKLINGTONS

STUBBS and MARLOW

STUBBS and HOGARTH

STUBBS and THE NEW YEAR

STUBBS and DANCE

STUBBS and WINSTANLEY

STUBBS and HODGES

STUBBS and GAINSBOROUGH

STUBBS and THE HORSE AND LION

STUBBS and THE MUSTERS

STUBBS and ALEXANDER COZENS

STUBBS and RICHMOND

STUBBS and COPLEY

STUBBS and CLARENDON

STUBBS and REYNOLDS

STUBBS and THE RUNNING HORSE

STUBBS and SHARP

STUBBS and ETERNITY

STUBBS and TURNER

STUBBS and BLAKE

ENCOUNTERS WITH THE EMINENT

STUBBS and GIBBON

STUBBS and ALFIERI

STUBBS and WINCKELMANN

STUBBS and DR. JOHNSON

STUBBS and ASTLEY

STUBBS and THE KING

STUBBS and SMITH

STUBBS and WESLEY

STUBBS and BEAUMARCHAIS

STUBBS and FULTON

STUBBS and BURKE

STUBBS and THE FANCIFUL CHILD

STUBBS and BARRINGTON

STUBBS and DASHKOFF

PERSONAL LIFE

STUBBS and MARY SPENCER

STUBBS and THE MORNING NEWS

STUBBS and LAURA

STUBBS and THE MONTROSE HEART

STUBBS and THE LISBON EARTHQUAKE

STUBBS and THE MIRACLE

STUBBS and HUNTER

STUBBS and THE PERFECT AFTERNOON

STUBBS and THE PROSPECT

STUBBS and THE ANGEL OF DEATH

STUBBS and THE NEW CALENDAR

STUBBS and THE IRISH GIANT

STUBBS and THE BEDTIME STORY

STUBBS and DE LOUTHERBOURG

STUBBS and PANTISOCRACY

About the Author

PREFACE

George Stubbs (1724-1806) was the leading eighteenth century British painter of horses and student of equine anatomy. Creation of an imagined biography, consisting of stories about Stubbs, was inspired by the fact that almost nothing is known about his personal qualities, private life, or common-law wife, Mary Spencer.

Basic chronology:

1724 Born in Liverpool.

1745 Begins anatomical studies and art activities in York. 1754 Visit to Italy.

1756 At Horkstow, assisted by Mary Spencer, dissects horses and makes drawings for The Anatomy of the Horse.

1764 Permanent home on Somerset Street, London (street no longer exists). Gains reputation as painter of animals. 1766 Elected Director (later Treasurer and President) of Society of Artists.

1781 Elected to Royal Academy, but not confirmed as Royal Academician because of disputes over policies. 1790s Financial difficulties.

1795 Begins major work of comparative anatomy, not completed.

1806 Dies aged eighty-one.

Paintings by Stubbs and others are described in the text to the extent each story requires. Illustrations of his works referred to can be found in one or another of the following:

Judy Egerton, George Stubbs 1724-1806 (Salem House, 1985). Catalogue of Stubbs exhibition at Tate Gallery and Yale Center for British Art, 1984-5.

William Gaunt, Stubbs (Phaidon, 1977).

Venetia Morrison, The Art of George Stubbs (Wellfleet Press, 2001).

Basil Taylor, Stubbs (Phaidon, 1975).

INTRODUCTION

Answering a knock on the door of Stubbs’ London home one morning in the mid-1780s, his companion Mary Spencer found an unfamiliar man asking to see him. She showed the visitor into the parlor and went to the studio where George was working. A man is here to see you, she said.

Do I know him?

I doubt it. He’s dressed very strangely and has an outlandish beard.

Stubbs could not recall an outlandish beard among his acquaintances, none of whom, now that he thought of it, had beards at all. I will be out in a moment, he said, placing a few last touches on the canvas.

Mary returned to the parlor, where the stranger had put down his writing case and was studying framed prints on the walls. Are you here about a painting? she asked.

Well, you might say I am here about all Mr. Stubbs’ paintings.

Really! Visions of multiple sales raced through her head.

When Stubbs entered, the stranger showed great delight at meeting him. My name is Merritt Abrash, he said as they shook hands, I’m a great admirer of your work.

Thank you, Stubbs responded, motioning the man to a chair. Clothing and beard were indeed unfashionable, and his accent difficult to place. Are you a Londoner, Mr. Abrash?

Not at all. I am an American.

I suppose that explains the beard, thought Stubbs. How can I serve you?

I’m interested in writing about you.

That did not sound like the painting commission Stubbs was hoping for. Writing about me?

Yes. When I look at your paintings, I think to myself, what kind of man did these remarkable works? I’m surprised to find so little written about you, and intend to rectify that.

This, while gratifying to a point, was such an odd notion that Stubbs paused to contemplate the stranger more closely. The two men were a fair match in age and baldness, although Abrash was of slighter build and much lesser girth. His dress was peculiar, but well made and clean; his beard—outlandish, yes, but neatly combed and trimmed. The face seemed open and honest enough, and without the regrettable beard might even aspire to dignity. Stubbs could not take him for either crank or confidence man. I am, of course, flattered that you should wish to write about me, but wonder if there is sufficient public interest in my work to make it worth your while.

Abrash frowned as if this hardly called for wondering. You, creator of the renowned Anatomy of the Horse, executor of commissions from the greatest patrons in England, and partner of Josiah Wedgwood in scientific research? If not yet in the public eye, you certainly deserve to be, and what I write will help accomplish that!

Skeptical though Stubbs might be about such an outcome, it certainly had appeal. It did, in truth, gall him that Reynolds, West, and even one as young as Opie, were frequently paraded in the journals, whereas his name, if mentioned at all, was rarely embellished with any comment beyond the damning horse painter. Well, Mr. Abrash, if you wish to undertake such an enterprise, I have no reason to object.

Very good! The visitor promptly opened his writing case and prepared to write. My idea is that for a week or two I should watch as you work, while you talk about your life and art.

Stubbs appearing to be taken aback, Abrash added, As long as that wouldn’t seem an intrusion.

Indeed it would, thought Stubbs, but decided to overlook the presumption inasmuch as the fellow’s eagerness to be helpful seemed genuine, and in any case allowances had to be made for the fact that he was an American. We’ll have to see about watching as I work, he said, but you are welcome to look about my studio if you wish.

Abrash snapped the case shut and was on his feet in an instant. Stubbs had not meant the studio visit to take place just at this moment, but Abrash evidently assumed that it would. Once ushered in, he darted about as if intent upon observing every detail, until suddenly stopping short before a partially hidden painting leaning against the wall, he asked, What is this?

A study based on an incident during the Commonwealth, replied Stubbs, clearing away the objects obscuring it.

You mean it is a history painting? asked Abrash in surprise, dropping onto one knee to inspect it.

Why yes, Stubbs responded drily, a painting of an incident during the Commonwealth is very likely to be a history painting.

Of course, but it amazes me that you are doing a history painting! I wasn’t aware that your oeuvre included any such.

As of now, in fact, it does not. I have never done such a work before, and, as you can see, much remains to be done even on this study. Most of my time is taken up with commissions, and to be honest, after so many years of painting animals, which are usually solitary and in thankfully static circumstances, I have difficulty managing the complexities of historical art.

Why bother, then?

Because history painting is considered the highest expression of visual art, according to a hierarchy to which I take strong exception but happens to determine both my prestige and my fees.

Abrash, still on one knee, continued to study the painting. What is the incident?

The Levellers defying Cromwell.

Yes, I see… Abrash opened his writing case and rested it on his other knee. This is exactly the kind of information I need about you!

But I would not want the painting mentioned before it is ready for exhibition.

Still, it is ideal material for a story.

Story?

Yes. Abrash began alternately glancing at the painting and writing in his case.

What do you mean by ‘story’? Are we not talking about a ‘life’?

Of sorts, he replied vaguely, absorbed in his work.

Mr. Abrash. There was no response. Stubbs spoke more loudly: Mr. Abrash!

Yes? he replied, without looking up.

Why do you speak of story when you are writing a life?

It will be a life with a difference—a creative difference, which I think will intrigue you.

But, story. Do I gather that you plan to make up a story about my life?

In a sense, yes. But each of them will—

Each of them? More than one story?

Dealing with various episodes, of course..

And made up, you say? But if it is my life, using my name, there must be nothing false about it!

Of course nothing will be false! Would I write falsehoods about a man I admire?

But if you are making up stories—

Abrash, interrupting, rose and gestured around the studio. Suppose I were to spend a month here, inspecting every inch of every painting, listening while you relate every remembered detail of your life. Could I then claim to know everything about you? Hardly! Dozens of days, weeks, entire months would remain concealed, because they contain nothing you found memorable. Whole aspects of your character would never come to light, because you chose not to speak of them. How am I to deal with that? Write only what you bring to my attention? What kind of ‘life’ would that be?

Stubbs was taken aback by the superficial plausibility of Abrash’s argument, but resumed pressing his own. Making up stories means inventing words, thoughts, and events—a great deal that never happened. Well, sir, since, in a life, what never happened is, by definition, not true, it is perforce false.

Mr. Stubbs, you are confusing falsehood with absence of truth. By learning all the facts about you, I can make sure my inventions, to use your word, do not violate them. Therefore the stories will not be false—the most you will be able to say is that they are not known to have happened, even though—and I intend to be painstakingly accurate about this—they could have.

Very ingenious, Mr. Abrash, but… He came to a halt, certain there was something flagrantly wrong with the visitor’s logic, but unable to put his finger on it.

For example, Abrash continued, suppose I want to write about you and Gainsborough. Based on what you tell me and what I find in print, I could write a dry account of when you met, exhibited together, how your styles compare, and so on. That would tell nothing of Stubbs the man encountering Gainsborough the man, which is what a really good life should be about, shouldn’t it? So I will make up a story about you and Gainsborough—departing in no way from the facts I know to be true—in which the two of you interact in a way which, to be sure, may never have happened, but which, because possible, is plausible.

After pausing to digest this explanation (rather glib, but still…), Stubbs spoke with care. Would this be a fair description of your method—that you take known facts as peaks above the clouds, or islets in the sea, and fill the empty spaces between with landscape, or tides, of your own invention?

Very well put, said Abrash, nodding appreciatively. Then, a bit condescendingly, he added, You realize, of course, that you have just described the way history in general is written.

Yes, I imagine that is so.

Then why do you object so firmly when I propose it as a way of writing your history?

Because the procedure, unexceptionable in theory, falls foul of one crucial aspect in practice—a simple reversal of two words.

Which words?

Just this—facts which to you, and your audience, may be merely not known to have happened, would be, to the subject of your inquiry, known not to have happened. You will understand that I cannot agree to your presenting as truth, even if only hypothetical, what I know to be false.

I wish I could persuade you otherwise, sighed Abrash, reopening his case and preparing to kneel again before the study. His look of sincere regret was displaced almost at once by concentration on his notes.

Stubbs, displeased that Abrash was apparently ignoring his rejection of the scheme for a ‘life,’ considered a direct rebuke but decided it would be sufficient to get the visitor out of the studio (once and forever). Let me persuade you, sir, to take tea with my wife and me, he said, motioning toward the door. Abrash hesitated, but of course had no choice but to comply. Reluctantly closing his case, he threw one last slow look around the studio before following his host to the parlor, where Mary shortly entered with biscuits and tea.

Mr. Abrash wishes to make up stories about me, explained Stubbs.

I could tell you stories, said Mary to the visitor, rolling her eyes.

Not those kinds of stories, dear. What he has in mind are encounters and events that sound believable, even though—

You mean a life of George Stubbs? she interrupted, excited.

No! / Yes! said Stubbs/Abrash simultaneously. But a life to reveal the man, added the visitor, not merely an inventory or chronology.

An imagined man! protested Stubbs, and the two were off again. After their argument had been noisily recapitulated (at sufficient length for second cups to be poured), Mary questioned the visitor.

If George assures you that he never met a particular individual, would you invent such a meeting?

Of course not.

But you feel free to invent meetings with anyone he does not mention?

Exactly! cried Stubbs before Abrash could reply, Imagining encounters with an actual acquaintance such as Gainsborough is bad enough, but he is saying that anyone at all I do not specifically exclude can be made to meet with me in whatever circumstances he pleases to invent. I would have to mark off the entire population of England, one by one, to insure the integrity of my life!

On the other hand, said Abrash, I should think you’d find it rather fascinating to read about a meeting with Johnson, or Burke, or Gibbon.

Gibbon!? What would I possibly have to do with Gibbon?

It’s not inconceivable you might run into him—you’re both Londoners, you undoubtedly know some of the same people, and as two intelligent men you could have an interesting conversation.

With equal logic, you could have me meeting the King! protested Stubbs, Londoners, acquaintances in common, interesting conversation!

Hmm, yes, I could, agreed Abrash, momentarily thoughtful, But wait—didn’t George the Third actually visit an exhibition put on by an artists society of which you were an officer?

That hardly entitles you—

So a story about you and the King—which might be called ‘George meets George (this amused Mary) —would take place in a factual framework, just as I promise you every story will.

The framework factual, perhaps, but the story itself utterly fictional!

Does that really matter, as long as you remain in character—the fine character I foresee for you?

Sir, you have no evidence for my character!

But I do—your paintings. Don’t an artist’s paintings reveal a great deal about his character? Stubbs hesitating to react to this proposition, Abrash, aware there was little love lost, either as artists or men, between his host and the President of the Royal Academy, slyly prompted, Could you not draw conclusions about Reynold’s character through his art?

Stubbs broke into an ironical smile. His art is superfluous for that purpose, although I do not doubt that his substantial store of character defects are there to be detected.

Mary, relieved to see her husband calmer, spoke to their guest. We know you intend no harm, Mr. Abrash, but it does seem worrisome to have so little control over one’s life as George would have in your portrayal of his.

Abrash, taking note of his host nodding vigorously in agreement, made a gesture of defeat and stood up. Mr. Stubbs, it’s unfortunate for both of us that we cannot agree. To borrow your image about peaks and islets: the fewer facts I know, the more empty spaces I must fill with my own invention, perhaps not always to your liking.

Do you really think it unfortunate? Is it not true in writing as in art, that the fewer the facts, the freer the invention?

I hope you’re not leaving, said Mary as the visitor took up his writing case, We would like you to join us for lunch.

Thank you, Miss Spencer, but I have a long trip ahead.

To America?

Yes. I came to England only to see Mr. Stubbs. And I thank you for your hospitality.

Stubbs, composed now, rose and accompanied him to the door. I do regret that so long a journey did not conclude more to your liking, he said.

It was well worth the trip. I saw your studio, learned you are attempting a history painting, and, most important of all, made the acquaintance of a remarkable man I have long admired. Stubbs felt a twinge of ingratitude as he showed Abrash out.

Well! exclaimed Mary after the door was closed, We have something to look forward to!

Yes, he is certainly well named— ‘brash,’ indeed! But why choose me for an invented life?

Because he thinks so highly of you, dear. Something about you evidently fascinates him, not exactly the same as what fascinates me, of course—she paused in clearing away the tea to give him a sweet kiss—but you should be flattered that a stranger is interested enough in your life to want to write about it.

But he will make things up!

Let him—not that we can stop him! I, for one, will be curious indeed to see the George Stubbs he portrays. Perhaps I’ll learn something.

Keep in mind that he will be portraying a Mary Spencer as well.

Then perhaps you’ll learn something. There’s plenty about me left for that! she added pointedly, gathering the tea service onto the tray. By the way, he called me Miss Spencer, so he knows we never married. Won’t it be interesting to see how he explains that?

Yes, I often think about that myself, he smiled, pulling her down on the sofa next to him, I would have preferred to secure you to me with chains of law long since.

Perhaps his explanation will improve upon the real one.

I hope so, because in the course of time it will become the real one.

What do you mean?

If it is the only story people have, they are bound to assume the author had grounds for it.

She thought about that. Of course! What he writes about you and Gainsborough—

—will be the only story known of Gainsborough and me, impossible to disprove. And as for a total stranger like Gibbon, the world—

She threw her arms around him, interrupting with, This ‘Life of George Stubbs’ is becoming more and more interesting! And you were right not to tell him anything—if he wants to make up stories, let him figure them out himself. We’ll see if he can invent a George Stubbs as delectable as the real one. She kissed him again. And if not.

What then?

If not. Suddenly she had it. You will do a history painting, ‘Abrash Visiting Stubbs,’ in which the artist, deeply committed to truth, loftily puts the irresponsible writer in his place!

Very good. The only problem is that what he writes about the visit will not seem irresponsible, since presented entirely from his viewpoint. And not only that, but his story may go on about what happens here after he leaves.

After he leaves? You mean about you and me right now?

Yes.

She looked puzzled. But he can’t know what’s happening here now.

Don’t you understand? There is nothing to stop him from making up stories about what we’re doing, our conversation, even our kissing!

Mary was perturbed only for a moment. He can make up whatever he likes, but we’re having a real conversation with real kissing! As indeed, it occurred to Stubbs, they were. He brushed his concerns aside. Abrash’s might-be-happening could never be more than a petty conceit alongside the actuality of his and Mary’s lives as lived, past, present and future.

ART AND ARTISTS

STUBBS and JOHN COZENS

Stubbs sometimes visited the younger Cozens after that unfortunate artist had become deranged and placed under Dr. Thomas Monro’s care. On some visits his friend was childishly noisy and talked only of trifles; on others he remained silent, and grave in manner. Occasionally he seemed balanced between these states and was permitted to ride around London (in responsible company) as if all were normal. A spate of artistic activity followed each of these outings, but, to Monro’s disappointment, never lasted long. The doctor, an artist himself, felt that for Cozens art was the only route back to sanity.

One day Monro suggested an experiment to Stubbs. The next time Cozens was well enough to ride, Stubbs should propose that they make a long, slow circuit, closely observing whatever lay along the way. This survey was to command their entire attention; all distractions, including conversation, were to be avoided. Afterward, each would create a single work of art condensing what they had seen. If we can establish a schema of how John’s mental processes distort his perceptions, we may learn how to counteract the process and return him to reality.

Stubbs was interested. Let me see if I understand you. John and I being exposed to identical experiences, a comparison of our different representations will provide a glimpse of how his mind works.

Exactly. And once that is known to us, a course of treatment will become clear.

A few weeks later, Stubbs and Cozens, who had slept well and was in a rare equanimity of mood, rode off in the morning from Northampton House, where Monro’s patients were lodged. Without mentioning Monro’s role, Stubbs described the day’s program as an ingenious method for exploring artists’ procedures of selecting from large aggregations of detail. They would be exposed to a wide range of subject matter by riding along Holborn and St. Giles to Tottenham Court Road, which would be followed out to Pancras. From there, they would take the Kentish Town fork into Highgate, finally returning on Highgate Road past Islington and St. John Street Gate back to Northampton House.

Stubbs took special care that Cozens understood the ground rules. The horses were to be kept to a slow walk. Conversation was proscribed, except for one drawing attention to sights which the other might overlook. Brief notes could be jotted down for later use (Monro did not wish the experiment complicated by differences in mnemonic abilities), but there was to be no sketching en route. The sole break in the journey—aside from partaking of snacks supplied by Monro, who came from his Adelphi Terrace home to see them off—would be at the Crown Public House in Lower Holloway, where they would be free to converse at their leisure.

Cozens proved a model companion. He observed and noted diligently, and obeyed the rule about conversation. At the Crown, he was so much his old self that Stubbs had difficulty bearing in mind that this man not only suffered from severe mood swings, but (so Monro had confided) showed initial signs of nervous system decay. Back at Northampton House by mid-afternoon, they agreed that Stubbs should return in three days with his drawing of the trip and compare it with Cozens’ version.

On his way home, Stubbs reviewed the images persisting in his mind. What came most readily were:

the child making wavelets in a pond

the barmaid’s smile at the Crown

the carter beating his horse

the rush of delight looking south from Highgate

the mourners at a fresh grave

the sunlight sparkling off New River Head

the nurseryman talking to his plants

Even these few initial recollections stimulated his excitement over the grand mosaic in prospect—the activities and conditions of humankind and nature, their luxuriant variety reduced to order and meaning through artistic sensibility. He began sketching that evening and continued all the following day. The drafts incorporated as many images as possible without falling into clutter, followed next day by a painstaking final version enhanced with light color. On the third morning he brought it, neatly mounted and wrapped, to Northampton House.

In the room which served as a studio for patients with artistic inclinations, Cozens was standing before an easel on which a blank sheet was fixed. Here is mine! said Stubbs, unwrapping his work, Show me yours, and we will compare.

Cozens took Stubbs’ work and studied it. A first-rate record, George!

And yours?

Not done yet, I’m afraid.

Well, let me see how far you have gotten.

Cozens gestured vaguely toward the easel. Just as you see it.

Stubbs peered to make sure he had not missed light pencil tracings, but no, the sheet was completely blank. He could not understand why Cozens (not one to set up jokes) would fail to carry out his part of an experiment which three days before had clearly engaged him. Have you made a draft? Stubbs asked.

No. I have not yet found a framework for my observations.

Take more time, then. What if I come back a week from today?

That should be enough.

I may as well leave my drawing here, said Stubbs, hoping it would stimulate Cozens to start on his own.

Monro spoke to him in confidence afterward. This is a crucial moment for John. The experiment requires self-examination of how he understands the world and his place in it—a daunting prospect he naturally prefers to avoid, hence his reluctance to start the drawing. But pride as an artist will surely drive him to reveal his reactions to the excursion. Stubbs had his doubts about whether Cozens, starting so late and in such uncertainty, could produce anything more than partial drafts during the next week, but Monro assured him that any drawing, no matter how rudimentary, would provide valuable insights.

When Stubbs arrived a week later, the studio was empty. He found Cozens in his room, sitting motionless beside a window, staring at his easel. Stubbs, calling a cheerful Hello! from the doorway, was alarmed by Cozens’ mumbled acknowledgment and failure to make any welcoming move—all too likely indications of renewed withdrawal.

Entering the room, Stubbs was puzzled to see the remains of what looked like several meals scattered on table and dresser. Well, I see your work is so absorbing that you choose to live with it full time! he said with forced joviality. After shaking Cozens’ listless hand, he turned to the easel and was startled to find, just as a week earlier, only a blank sheet of paper. Surely you have done drafts by now! he exclaimed.

No.

But—after a whole week?

Cozens shrugged helplessly, looking pained. Haven’t found the framework.

Framework? Why, the subject matter is its own framework, John. Look! He took his own drawing from Cozens’ table and held it up. We took pains to ensure that our observations were the same, therefore we have identical material to work with. Burial, view, carter, and all the rest—what is there to do but organize to best express what we experienced?

No! Cozens objected, showing vigor for the first time since Stubbs’ arrival, What you speak of is nothing but a record!

Stubbs was taken aback. What more do you expect? We agreed to condense impressions.

Is this—he pointed accusingly at Stubbs’ drawing—the totality of your impressions? An accumulation of chance events, of conditions in conjunction? Why, you have concluded where you should be commencing!

I do not understand.

You have settled for a mere report, when you should have been thinking, ‘What am I to make of this? What relates these phenomena? What principle underlies their presence?

That goes quite beyond our experiment, John. What relates the observations is simply that they fell within our view. As for—

Only that? interrupted Cozens, increasingly excited, Related only in our senses, not in the nature of their existence? I will not believe that! The system of the world cannot lack underlying principle. And so I seek—

Principle has nothing to do with it. Through these phenomena we are able to perceive the operations of nature, and that is enough.

No, it is not! I seek a framework within which those phenomena, which to you are mere atoms of existence, can be seen as part of the vast unity which encompasses us all!

Cozens seemed so overwrought that Stubbs thought it best to break off the argument. John, tomorrow I leave for several weeks of commissions in Norfolk and the Midlands. No doubt you will be nearer your objective by the time I return. Cozens subsided almost at once into staring dully at the easel. Stubbs could see no point in remaining, and said only, as he departed from the unkempt room with its scattered meal leavings, Take care of yourself. You really should eat better and exercise more. Perhaps we will go on another excursion.

No, I cannot, responded Cozens glumly, until I find the framework for this one.

Stubbs regretted that Monro was not on hand with whom to discuss this ominous turn of events before leaving London.