‘In a foreground of sea-shore Miranda, lightly draped, is seated on a rock, watching with clasped hands and partly averted face the brave ship tossing in the offing; the blue sea breaks unheeded on the sand, her eyes being wholly absorbed by the vessel, which is yet to suffer through the magic of Prospero…satisfying potency of colour and a finely graduated brilliance of illumination give admirable force and relief to the figure.’ (J.A. Blaikie, ‘J.W. Waterhouse, A.R.A.’, In Magazine of Art, 1886, p.3

The plays of Shakespeare were among the greatest sources of inspiration for John William Waterhouse, whose depictions of Ophelia are world famous. The present picture was Waterhouse’s first depiction of a heroine from Shakespeare and only his second exhibit at the Royal Academy. The painting was hailed as a major rediscovery in 2004 when it was found in a private collection in Scotland, having been lost for 131 years. It was a known painting and reproduced in Anthony Hobson’s seminal book on the artist published in 1989 but the image was reversed and in black and white and conveyed little of the quiet beauty of the picture.

Miranda depicts a scene of the artist’s own invention which precedes the opening of Shakespeare’s play. On a sandy beach, strewn with seashells and seaweed Miranda, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Prospero, sits alone and gazes out over the waves, her eyes fixed on the far horizon where the sails of a ship can be seen. Most artists painted Miranda witnessing the destruction of the ship carrying her eventual lover Ferdinand. Much later in his life this was the scene that Waterhouse himself painted on two occasions. However as a young man, he chose to depict a more unusual and more touching subject of the pensive Miranda awaiting the ship on the island to which she has been exiled for twelve years, as the ominous storm-clouds gather.

It is curious that Miranda, a maiden from a play written in 1611, is depicted wearing a toga and bandeaux and perhaps the picture is closer to depictions of the classical heroine Ariadne, although she does not seem distraught that Theseus has callously abandoned her. Ariadne was certainly a subject that Waterhouse painted later in his career (in 1898, private collection) but he used it as an opportunity to depict a tantalisingly vulnerable woman sleeping on a terrace above the sea. The costume in Miranda can be explained by an examination of Waterhouse’s early style, which in the 1870s was almost entirely Classical in spirit. Pictures like In the Peristyle (Touchstones Rochdale Art Gallery) which he had exhibited at the Dudley Gallery in 1874, reflect the influence of the pervading fashion for Neo-Classicism as a girl feeds doves in a setting or marble and flowers. Sleep and his Half-brother Death (private collection) had been Waterhouse’s first exhibit at the Royal Academy in 1874 and depicted a Pompeian scene loosely depicting Thanatos and Hypnos. This was followed by a scene of Greco-Roman lovers entitled Whispered Words of 1875 (private collection) which was bought by the great engineer Sir John Aird who was famous for building the Aswan Dam and moving the Crystal Palace to Sydenham. Whispered Wordsaccompanied Miranda at the Royal Academy exhibition and it was suggested by Anthony Hobson that they both depict the same model, thought to have been Waterhouse’s sister Jessie, whose name appears in a poem that accompanied Whispered Words. The unifying thread between Sleep and his Half Brother Death, Whispered Words and Miranda is the highly personal interpretation of the subjects which suggested scenes that the artist interpreted in a poetic way rather than slavishly rendered. This was described well in 1886 by James A. Blaikie who interviewed Waterhouse and described Mirandaas ‘… in no sense a dramatic illustration of Shakespeare, but … rather, for all its pictorial effect, a purely academic study of the figure, set forth in a spacious aerial medium of broad, soft evening light suffusing sea and sky.  In a foreground of sea-shore Miranda, lightly draped, is seated on a rock, watching with clasped hands and partly averted face the brave ship tossing in the offing; the blue sea breaks unheeded on the sand, her eyes being wholly absorbed by the vessel, which is yet to suffer through the magic of Prospero.’

Hobson speculated that the original title of the painting was Waiting, ‘a title suggested by the writing on the wooden support in Mrs Somerville’s photograph of the painting’. However, the inscription does not appear to be in Waterhouse’s handwriting and was probably written by someone who had not known the artist when this picture was painted.

It is interesting that one of Waterhouse’s last paintings depicted Miranda again and is typical of the artist who returned time and time again to favourite subjects to be re-interpreted. The picture entitled Miranda – The Tempest (private collection) which was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1917, depicts the ship-wreck scene. It is a very different painting, full of anguish, tempestuous weather and high drama and in stark contrast to the calm restraint of the 1875 picture. The picture exhibited in 1917 and a further smaller version exhibited posthumously by Waterhouse’s widow perhaps convey the turmoil of WWI, the heroine on the shore powerless to help those who are in peril perhaps has echoes of sentiments felt by the women of Britain at this time.

– From Sotheby’s catalogue.

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The Remorse of Nero depicts the Roman emperor Nero sadly contemplating his dead mother, Agrippa, whom he had murdered. Agrippa had installed her son as emperor in 54 AD after killing her husband-uncle Claudius. Nero and Agrippa reportedly had incestuous relations, and after her murder he allegedly praised the corpse’s beauty. Nero lived a life of infamy for more reason than one, however; he was believed to be behind the burning of Rome to clear land for his grandiose residence, the Domus Aurea (Golden Palace), flaunted his bisexuality, and systematized the persecution of Christians.

Waterhouse’s painting successfully captures the opulence and cruelty of Nero’s reign. The sofa’s mother-of-pearl inlay, the richly embroidered pillow, and the buttery strokes of yellow and beige convey lavishness. Remorse is just as evident as luxury. The Emperor’s brow is wrinkled, his eyes enlarged from weeping, his head rests on his hands, and a murky shadow falls on much of his face and hand. It is evident that cruelty has taken its toll on Nero.The Remorse of Nero must be considered as part of an ongoing debate among Britons who sought to preserve their own empire by avoiding the mistakes of their predecessors, particularly the Romans. Conservative commentators of the day regularly criticized artists for presenting alluring images of Rome that downplayed the imperial Rome’s moral degeneracy. Waterhouse’s painting of Nero may be seen as a reaction to the false idealizing of his contemporaries. The Emperor is unattended and in an almost feminine pose. The painting does not represent a grand event but depicts Nero as an anti-hero. It is an alternative image of him as melodramatic and not victorious.

The Remorse of Nero was a poignant reminder that the Roman Empire was not all glory — and neither was England’s.

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Destiny was painted by John William Waterhouse in 1900. As indicated just above his signature, in the bottom left hand corner of the painting, it was created specifically for the Artists War Fund.
The fund raised money for British soldiers and their widows during the Boer War which had commenced in 1899. Paintings donated by 350 artists were put on exhibition in the London Guildhall and twelve thousand pounds was raised for the fund via an auction conducted by Christie’s.

Waterhouse’s painting shows a beautiful woman raising a glass to her mouth in a farewell toast for the departing warriors. She appears lost in her thoughts as she stands in what appears to be a loggia, an Italian style outdoor room or corridor with views out to a marshy area. An open book sits on a desk in front of her.

Beside her is a large round mirror in which the viewer can see the reflection of a large, rather ornate globe and two ships sailing out to sea. The use of the mirror is fascinating. Although the size and shape of the mirror obscures the full view of the room which can frustrate the viewer, it also provides a view of the world outside the room on the other side of the building.

Yet the reflection is confusing and does not appear to be totally accurate. The time period in which the painting is set is also ambiguous. Some writers have suggested that the mirror may reflect a vision of the future – an idea which is supported by the title of the painting, Destiny.

John William Waterhouse used mirrors in some of his other paintings including one of his versions of the “Lady of Shalott”, “I am Half Sick of Shadows” and also in “Circe offering the Cup to Ulysses”. Both these paintings feature large, circular mirrors which capture the view outside the setting. His painting of Lady of Shalott working on her tapestry shares some very similar attributes to this painting.

Destiny is a beautiful painting, romantic and mysterious. It captivates the viewer and encourages them to consider what Destiny lies ahead for the woman in the painting.

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The Unwelcome Companion: A Street Scene in Cairo is an early painting by John William Waterhouse. Completed in 1873, it was exhibited at the gallery of the Society of British Artists.
In 1951, P. Oldman donated it to Towneley Art Gallery; it was misidentified as Spanish Tambourine Girl until a label with the correct name was discovered by Anthony Hobson.As the scenario of The Unwelcome Companion “is obscure”, Hobson says that Waterhouse “Had not yet acquired that combination of an appropriate setting with the pose and gesture of the figure which within a few years was to make him an outstanding illustrator of the legends”.
Waterhouse later depicted the same woman in the same dress in his work, Dancing Girl.

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Slight as it is, Undine constitutes an early expression of several issues crucial to Waterhouse.  Dickens had argued that ‘in a utilitarian age, of all other times, it is a matter of grave importance that fairy tales should be respected.’  Waterhouse clearly shared the Romantics’ fascination with supernatural characters and experiences because they pointed to the spirit of that which cannot be seen: to abstract ideas (in this picture, the spirituality of nature) dismissed by modern science and positivism   Undine is also the first of Waterhouse’s many young female figures, the blank slate on which artists have long projected various meanings.  Undine’s hair and form repeat the flume behind her, underscoring Waterhouse’s association of women and water.  Alchemists considered water to be an entirely feminine element because it is simultaneously yielding, consuming and life-giving.  Indeed, La Motte Fouque’ drew from the sixteenth-century alchemist Paracelsus, whose theory of elemental spirits was founded in folk beliefs derived from the pagan worship of nature.

– J.W. Waterhouse, Peter Trippi, Phaidon Press

This evocative oil sketch was painted as Waterhouse prepared his great Nymphs finding the head of Orpheus (private collection), signed in 1900 and exhibited at the Royal Academy of Arts the following year.
The depiction of this mythic moment is unique within Victorian painting, and possibly within all of British art. Through the late 19th Century, Symbolist artists and writers had grown evermore enthusiastic about Orpheus, the greatest poet and musician in Greek myth, because he, like so many creative individuals, sang the truth and thus aroused resentment. Dismissed by his contemporaries as effeminate for mourning his wife too passionately, Orpheus was torn to pieces by Maenads after rejecting their advances. Into the river they hurled his head, which demonstrated art’s immortality by continuing to sing as it floated away.

Victorian artists usually showed Orpheus singing while still alive, or rescuing his wife Eurydice from Hades. Most avoided the gruesomeness of Orpheus’s demise, which instead attracted such Continental peers as the Frenchman Gustave Moreau. Indeed, Waterhouse may have been inspired by Moreau’s pensive Thracian Girl Carrying the Head of Orpheus on his Lyre (1866), which the Englishman surely saw on visits to the popular Musée Luxembourg in Paris. Waterhouse was also probably familiar with the recent revival of Orphism, the ancient ecstatic cult that had celebrated Orpheus as a martyr before it was absorbed by the early Christian church.

Waterhouse had long been fascinated with the violent aspects of ancient myth. Yet rather than presenting a physically dynamic struggle (such as Ulysses and the Sirens of 1891), he imagined Nymphs Finding the Head of Orpheus as a scene of contemplation subtly laced with horror. Orpheus’s severed head constitutes the key feature, yet viewers notice the beautiful nymphs first and last, and are drawn inexorably into the picture by their compassionate gazes and gestures. A now-unlocated drawing of the nymphs (published in 1917) reveals that Waterhouse considered-and wisely rejected-more horrified facial expressions and body language. Instead, he created a picture ‘more of dream than of conscious thought,’ a phrase coined by critic Frank Rinder that pertains equally to other Waterhouse masterworks of this period.

The present sketch deftly conveys the girl’s mix of alarm and sympathy: her eyes gaze downward, drawing her head and upper torso forward without seeming ungainly. This work also reveals how Waterhouse built up his surface, focusing most intensively on the flushed face, then on the hair and other flesh passages. (Particularly adept is the shadowing along and below the right cheek, which allows the brighter nose and shoulder cap to guide our eyes downward.) Highly characteristic are the delicate blue colouring of the garment and the lively brushstrokes in the background, especially the dark dabs at right centre that hint at the right-hand nymph.

As with all of his major compositions, Waterhouse devoted much time to the planning of Nymphs finding the head of Orpheus. Among his other preparatory works are a large oil sketch of both figures (Lloyd Webber Collection), an oil sketch of Orpheus’s head floating near a red-breasted robin in song (private collection), and several compositional drawings in his sketchbooks at the Victoria & Albert Museum, London. This, however, is the only picture focusing on one of the nymphs, an exemplar of the rosy-cheeked, red-lipped “Waterhouse girl” now admired worldwide.

– From Christie’s catalogue.

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The present picture is a superb reduced-scale replica painted by J.W. Waterhouse after the larger work he had just exhibited to acclaim at the Royal Academy of Arts’ Summer Exhibition of 1884. The image seen in both the replica and the larger canvas (now in Tate Britain) is best considered through two lenses: its sensational subject, and its instantaneous fame.

In the Summer Exhibition catalogue, Waterhouse provided a brief explanation of his theme: “The Oracle or Teraph was a human head, cured with spices, which was fixed against the wall, and lamps being lit before it and other rites performed, the imagination of diviners was so excited that they supposed that they heard a low voice speaking future events.” The source of this subject, unprecedented in British art, seems to have been one of several 19th-century editions of Antiquities of the Jews, written by the historian Flavius Josephus in the first century AD. This was a peculiar choice for the 35 year-old artist — by all accounts a man on the rise — yet his risk paid off handsomely.

The Art Journal was right to call it “an intensely dramatic picture.” Like a theatre director luring his audience into the world onstage, Waterhouse left a place open for the viewer in the semicircle of women, defined by the marble ledge on which they sit. Together with her extended arm, the priestess’s curling hand, framed by a block of sunlight, commands attention by implying that the oracle is in the process of prophesying. Viewers feel both fascination and repulsion: the oracle’s head is gruesome, two Torah scrolls lie ignored in the cabinet at right, and the listeners appear dangerously close to hysteria.  The Art Journal noted the women’s “swollen features, glazed eyes and a certain ecstatic insincerity,” further accentuated by their unladylike open mouths and the disarray of the carpets. Using an impasto appropriate to his excitable theme, Waterhouse studded the shadowy masses with small areas of saturated colour.

Consulting the Oracle represents a re-emergence of the Orientalism Waterhouse had first explored in 1872 with a now-unlocated painting, The Slave; each uses an Eastern setting to excuse a compellingly lurid subject. Its antiquity provided additional respectability: the Illustrated London News noted that “a careful study of archaeology and history has been combined with bold drawing and rich colouring, to a degree attained by few of the followers of Mr Alma-Tadema.” (Through 1891, Waterhouse’s paintings were often compared with those of Lawrence Alma-Tadema [1836-1912], who was renowned for archeological exactitude and elegant colouring.) In fact, Waterhouse first conceived this scene as Greek, not Hebrew; a preparatory drawing (Tate Britain) shows the Pythian Sibyl, through whom Apollo’s oracle spoke at Delphi. Waterhouse may have shifted to a Hebrew setting to distinguish this picture from the numerous Greek scenes exhibited in this period.

In Victorian art, Eastern women, including Hebrews, represented everything the idealized Englishwoman was not: strong, passionate, seductive, irrational, and unknowable. These women strain to hear and see in a darkened room, and Waterhouse suggested their sensuality with the breast visible through the foremost figure’s gown. Consulting the Oracle epitomizes Waterhouse’s preference in the mid 1880s for darker models, whom he may have sketched in Italy or obtained from the community of Italians who modeled in London.

Consulting the Oracle is the first of many Waterhouse pictures featuring an enchantress’s intense gaze. He probably grew interested in this motif through the French painter Jules Bastien-Lepage (1848-1884), whose work first appeared at the Royal Academy in 1878. From 1880, the Frenchman exhibited regularly in London, where younger artists idolized him, and his prestige soared even higher upon his early death in 1884. He had attended lectures on the ‘psychologie nouvelle’ by Jean-Martin Charcot, who developed medicine’s understanding of hysteria as a neurological disorder and influenced Sigmund Freud. From the 1870s Charcot published photographs of his patients, and Bastien attracted international attention by using their expressions, described in 1883 by the American critic W.C. Brownell as “half-conscious, half-ecstatic.”

Like animals of the same species, Waterhouse’s women are virtually indistinguishable physically, yet each reacts to the prophecy with a unique pose. Waterhouse had long admired the art of the renowned French academician Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904), who favoured groups responding to a single phenomenon with different expressions, much like theatre audiences watching performers. A famous example was his Phryne Before the Tribunal (1861, exhibited London 1866, now Hamburger Kunsthalle), with its sensational theme and potentially arousing display of flesh.

When he exhibited Consulting the Oracle in 1884, Waterhouse was perceived as a man on the rise in English art. A year earlier, his comparably scaled The Favourites of the Emperor Honorius had won warm praise and was acquired immediately by the Art Gallery of South Australia at Adelaide. Three months before Consulting the Oracle appeared at the Academy, the influential journalist M.H. Spielmann (1858-1948) reported that Waterhouse had already sold it for £900. Although this price did not match the sums commanded by such stars as Sir Frederic Leighton and Sir John Everett Millais, it was very good for such a young man. The buyer was the sugar-refining magnate Henry Tate (1819-99), who a year later purchased Waterhouse’s even more sensationally themed St Eulalia, which promptly got Waterhouse elected an Associate of the Academy.

The Illustrated London News thought enough of Consulting the Oracle to reproduce it across a double-page spread, hailing it as “a careful study of archaeology and history combined with bold drawing and rich colouring.” The Magazine of Art called it “one of the successes of the year…there is enough of passion and drama and character in the group of devotees, and enough of good colour and good painting everywhere, to make the work in every sense remarkable.” In his caricature for Punch magazine, Edward Linley Sambourne (1844-1910) showed Consulting the Oracle hanging alongside other “pictures of the year” by such renowned artists as Sir Frederic Leighton.

Apparently Consulting the Oracle delighted Waterhouse’s colleagues, as well: one artist (whose name is not recorded) applied unsuccessfully to the Academy Council for permission to make a small copy. It was common in this era for artists to create replicas of their most successful works for wealthy patrons who had missed the chance to buy the original version. This seems to be the case for the present picture, which may well have been made expressly for its first recorded owner, the horticulturalist Sir Harry Veitch (1840-1924), who was instrumental in creating what is now the Chelsea Flower Show.

Waterhouse died of liver cancer in 1917, during the depths of World War I, and so his passing was not commemorated formally by the Academy until 1922, when the institution mounted a group show of recently deceased Academicians. Veitch loaned the present picture for that exhibition, then bequeathed it to the art gallery in his native Exeter, the Royal Albert Memorial Museum. Many Waterhouse pictures entered Britain’s municipal galleries in this manner during this era, and it is revealing of the artist’s posthumous fall from prestige that several works were deaccessioned by such institutions in the 1950s. Consulting the Oracle thus left Exeter’s collection in 1954 and has been privately owned ever since.

Waterhouse’s star has slowly returned to prominence since the late 1960s, and it is telling that the original version of Consulting the Oracle (still in the founding collection of Tate Britain) is prominently featured in the retrospective exhibition currently drawing crowds at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts after equally popular presentations at the Groninger Museum (Netherlands) and Royal Academy of Arts, London. The Montreal showing closes February 7, 2010.

– From Christie’s catalogue.

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