The portraits discussed so far in this chapter represent people who had
authority, power, wealth, talent, or fame. These portraits helped create
and perpetuate a public image of leaders, prominent members of
society, creative people, and celebrities. But in considering the question
of status and power, it is also crucial to look at portraits of those who
did not have a high position in society and who may have had momen-
tary notoriety but were relatively unknown even in their own time.
Portraits that fall under this category may represent the poor, servants,
criminals, and—in certain periods of history—non-Europeans. Such
portraits were rarely commissioned by the subjects themselves but
could be requested by interested third parties, or produced by the artist
as a commercial speculation. Unlike portraits of prominent members of
society that were intended to project a message about the power or
virtue of their subjects, portraits of the unknown or members of an
underclass did not send such signals. In many cases portraits of this
underclass breach portrait conventions, and in doing so they give us an
insight into how certain societies expressed a fascination with or a
disdain for otherness.
Portraits of lower ranks of society were frequently commissioned by
the people for whom they worked. Among the most famous examples
of such a commission was the series of portraits of court dwarfs painted
by Velázquez for Philip IV. Although it was common during the
Renaissance for artists to produce portraits of court dwarfs, Velázquez’
portraits are unusually striking works. His portrait of Calabacillas
demonstrates how works like this abandoned conventions in a way that
would have been unacceptable for higher classes of sitter in the Spanish
court of the time. Calabacillas is seated in a relaxed and casual cross-
legged pose, in contrast to the stiff and formal postures of state
portraiture. He is smiling rather than showing the static expression
common to most seventeenth-century Spanish court portraiture. He is
also represented with a prominent squint, whereas most court artists of
that period evaded the natural deformities of higher-born subjects in an
attempt to express beauty and grace. Instead of an attribute expressing
his virtues, Calabacillas is surrounded by bottles, which possibly hint at
indulgence in drink and give an air of carelessness to his surroundings.
The portrait is even unconventional in the way it was painted. Veláz-
quez allowed himself more than usually free brushwork on Calabacillas’
sleeves, ruff, and face. What results is a powerful and evocative portrait
rather than the social mask that was so common among higher ranks of
society. But one must question how such portraits would have been
seen and understood. It has been argued that Velázquez’ portraits of
court dwarfs are warm expressions of the humanity of their subjects.
The same elements that seem to make Calabacillas a figure of potential
derision—his diminutive figure, his squint—could also make him an
object of compassion. Certainly dwarfs were part of the court ‘family’
in seventeenth-century Spain: they were sought after and celebrated,
and were allowed certain liberties within the court that were closed to
other working people. It is impossible to recover the responses of con-
temporaries to this figure and to know whether they would have felt a
humane affection for Calabacillas, a sense of superiority to his awk-
wardness, ugliness, and possible dissipation, or a mix of these and other
emotions. What is clear, however, is that Velázquez’ portrait empha-
sized the difference of his subject from the physical demeanour and
expression of his royal and aristocratic sitters.
Other portraits of lower-class sitters are perhaps less ambiguous, if
also less powerful. By the eighteenth century it was not unknown for
country house owners in Britain to commission peripatetic artists to
paint pictures of their servants [57]. Such works may have been devised
as records of ownership, in much the same way as these same patrons
commissioned portraits which included their family estate. The insti-
tutional significance of such portraits is attested to by the number of
portraits of servants painted for Oxford and Cambridge colleges. For
example, an anonymous portrait in New College, Oxford, of 1764 rep-
resents Thomas Hodges, the servant to the Chaplain, smiling and with
a squint in the manner of Velázquez’ Calabacillas, and holding a
tankard of ale and an armful of pipes.
It is significant to note that in
many cases these portraits were painted by relatively unknown and/or
itinerant artists. This may have been for reasons of expense or conve-
nience, and servants would not have been likely to have the leisure to
visit portrait studios. However, another reason may be the documentary
or commemorative quality of many such portraits, as these works were
often accompanied by inscriptions, which indicate the identity of the
sitter and the sitter’s role in the house or institution.
Although portraits of servants do not follow a specific set of con-
ventions, many of them share certain qualities with genre painting,
specifically an emphasis on communicative—even theatrical—expres-
sion and gesture, and a focus on the everyday qualities of the scene
rather than the symbolic ones. Portraits by the seventeenth-century
Flemish artist Jan Steen demonstrate how portraits can take on aspects
of genre. Group compositions especially allowed for both an
everyday setting and a communication between the figures in the paint-
ing and the viewer. The light-hearted atmosphere of such portraits also
contributed to making the sitters seem less like symbolic objects and
more like people. However, such qualities also make Steen’s portraits
appear to be indistinguishable from some of his ‘merry company’ paint-
ings that represent cavorting revellers.
Another example can be found in Johann Zoffany’s portrait of the
optician John Cuff, who worked for King George III . Compared
to the conventions of formal portraiture, the only clear signal that this
is a portrait is the way Cuff stares out of the picture, as if posing. Other
aspects of the work give it greater affinities with genre painting. For
example, Cuff is shown with an assistant, working in his shop at Fleet
Street, London. Zoffany has dwelt on the physical qualities of the tools
of the trade in the room, and he has emphasized the wrinkled faces and
crumpled work clothes of his figures. The fact that Cuff is smiling is
also indicative: the display of such an overt expression as smiling was
generally avoided in portraiture, as in its frozen state the smile can seem
to distort the face of the subject. The use of explicit expression has been
seen already in representations of other working people like Steen’s
baker or Velázquez’ Calabacillas, and smiles and laughter were com-
monly associated with the more comic aspects of genre painting.
The different kinds of poses, gestures, and artistic associations that
appear in each of these portraits of servants and other members of the
lower classes seem to give them a representational ‘otherness’ in relation
to the people who commissioned their portraits. This perception of
otherness is also significant in understanding why portraits of criminals,
insane people, and individuals from other nations could be less con-
strained by conventions than those of leaders, intellectuals, or stars. In
the nineteenth century, the French artist Théodore Géricault famously
produced a series of portraits of people in the Bicêtre insane asylum that
exemplifies this point well. Géricault’s portraits represented unknown
people with serious mental disturbances, and they were intended to
document the diverse forms of madness suffered by the inmates of the
asylum. However, they also stand as penetrating portraits, not least
because—despite the use of a standard half-length format—Géricault
was not constrained by the expressions and gestures associated with
portraits of people with a higher standing in society. Because such indi-
viduals were considered outsiders, conventions of portraying their faces
could also be readily abandoned. But what could produce a startling and
fascinating work of art could also be a manifestation of the prejudices or
perceived superiority of higher ranks of society.
Thus portraits of different levels of society were commissioned by
both the sitters and by those who had reason to commemorate or
remember them. The traces of status in the poses, gestures, and accou-
trements of portraiture enabled viewers to respond in a way that tested
their own perceived superiority over, inferiority to, or affinity with the
subjects of the portraits. Portraits of different classes thus required dif-
ferent kinds of signals to engage with the needs of patrons and the
expectations of audiences.
authority, power, wealth, talent, or fame. These portraits helped create
and perpetuate a public image of leaders, prominent members of
society, creative people, and celebrities. But in considering the question
of status and power, it is also crucial to look at portraits of those who
did not have a high position in society and who may have had momen-
tary notoriety but were relatively unknown even in their own time.
Portraits that fall under this category may represent the poor, servants,
criminals, and—in certain periods of history—non-Europeans. Such
portraits were rarely commissioned by the subjects themselves but
could be requested by interested third parties, or produced by the artist
as a commercial speculation. Unlike portraits of prominent members of
society that were intended to project a message about the power or
virtue of their subjects, portraits of the unknown or members of an
underclass did not send such signals. In many cases portraits of this
underclass breach portrait conventions, and in doing so they give us an
insight into how certain societies expressed a fascination with or a
disdain for otherness.
Portraits of lower ranks of society were frequently commissioned by
the people for whom they worked. Among the most famous examples
of such a commission was the series of portraits of court dwarfs painted
by Velázquez for Philip IV. Although it was common during the
Renaissance for artists to produce portraits of court dwarfs, Velázquez’
portraits are unusually striking works. His portrait of Calabacillas
demonstrates how works like this abandoned conventions in a way that
would have been unacceptable for higher classes of sitter in the Spanish
court of the time. Calabacillas is seated in a relaxed and casual cross-
legged pose, in contrast to the stiff and formal postures of state
portraiture. He is smiling rather than showing the static expression
common to most seventeenth-century Spanish court portraiture. He is
also represented with a prominent squint, whereas most court artists of
that period evaded the natural deformities of higher-born subjects in an
attempt to express beauty and grace. Instead of an attribute expressing
his virtues, Calabacillas is surrounded by bottles, which possibly hint at
indulgence in drink and give an air of carelessness to his surroundings.
The portrait is even unconventional in the way it was painted. Veláz-
quez allowed himself more than usually free brushwork on Calabacillas’
sleeves, ruff, and face. What results is a powerful and evocative portrait
rather than the social mask that was so common among higher ranks of
society. But one must question how such portraits would have been
seen and understood. It has been argued that Velázquez’ portraits of
court dwarfs are warm expressions of the humanity of their subjects.
The same elements that seem to make Calabacillas a figure of potential
derision—his diminutive figure, his squint—could also make him an
object of compassion. Certainly dwarfs were part of the court ‘family’
in seventeenth-century Spain: they were sought after and celebrated,
and were allowed certain liberties within the court that were closed to
other working people. It is impossible to recover the responses of con-
temporaries to this figure and to know whether they would have felt a
humane affection for Calabacillas, a sense of superiority to his awk-
wardness, ugliness, and possible dissipation, or a mix of these and other
emotions. What is clear, however, is that Velázquez’ portrait empha-
sized the difference of his subject from the physical demeanour and
expression of his royal and aristocratic sitters.
Other portraits of lower-class sitters are perhaps less ambiguous, if
also less powerful. By the eighteenth century it was not unknown for
country house owners in Britain to commission peripatetic artists to
paint pictures of their servants [57]. Such works may have been devised
as records of ownership, in much the same way as these same patrons
commissioned portraits which included their family estate. The insti-
tutional significance of such portraits is attested to by the number of
portraits of servants painted for Oxford and Cambridge colleges. For
example, an anonymous portrait in New College, Oxford, of 1764 rep-
resents Thomas Hodges, the servant to the Chaplain, smiling and with
a squint in the manner of Velázquez’ Calabacillas, and holding a
tankard of ale and an armful of pipes.
It is significant to note that in
many cases these portraits were painted by relatively unknown and/or
itinerant artists. This may have been for reasons of expense or conve-
nience, and servants would not have been likely to have the leisure to
visit portrait studios. However, another reason may be the documentary
or commemorative quality of many such portraits, as these works were
often accompanied by inscriptions, which indicate the identity of the
sitter and the sitter’s role in the house or institution.
Although portraits of servants do not follow a specific set of con-
ventions, many of them share certain qualities with genre painting,
specifically an emphasis on communicative—even theatrical—expres-
sion and gesture, and a focus on the everyday qualities of the scene
rather than the symbolic ones. Portraits by the seventeenth-century
Flemish artist Jan Steen demonstrate how portraits can take on aspects
of genre. Group compositions especially allowed for both an
everyday setting and a communication between the figures in the paint-
ing and the viewer. The light-hearted atmosphere of such portraits also
contributed to making the sitters seem less like symbolic objects and
more like people. However, such qualities also make Steen’s portraits
appear to be indistinguishable from some of his ‘merry company’ paint-
ings that represent cavorting revellers.
Another example can be found in Johann Zoffany’s portrait of the
optician John Cuff, who worked for King George III . Compared
to the conventions of formal portraiture, the only clear signal that this
is a portrait is the way Cuff stares out of the picture, as if posing. Other
aspects of the work give it greater affinities with genre painting. For
example, Cuff is shown with an assistant, working in his shop at Fleet
Street, London. Zoffany has dwelt on the physical qualities of the tools
of the trade in the room, and he has emphasized the wrinkled faces and
crumpled work clothes of his figures. The fact that Cuff is smiling is
also indicative: the display of such an overt expression as smiling was
generally avoided in portraiture, as in its frozen state the smile can seem
to distort the face of the subject. The use of explicit expression has been
seen already in representations of other working people like Steen’s
baker or Velázquez’ Calabacillas, and smiles and laughter were com-
monly associated with the more comic aspects of genre painting.
The different kinds of poses, gestures, and artistic associations that
appear in each of these portraits of servants and other members of the
lower classes seem to give them a representational ‘otherness’ in relation
to the people who commissioned their portraits. This perception of
otherness is also significant in understanding why portraits of criminals,
insane people, and individuals from other nations could be less con-
strained by conventions than those of leaders, intellectuals, or stars. In
the nineteenth century, the French artist Théodore Géricault famously
produced a series of portraits of people in the Bicêtre insane asylum that
exemplifies this point well. Géricault’s portraits represented unknown
people with serious mental disturbances, and they were intended to
document the diverse forms of madness suffered by the inmates of the
asylum. However, they also stand as penetrating portraits, not least
because—despite the use of a standard half-length format—Géricault
was not constrained by the expressions and gestures associated with
portraits of people with a higher standing in society. Because such indi-
viduals were considered outsiders, conventions of portraying their faces
could also be readily abandoned. But what could produce a startling and
fascinating work of art could also be a manifestation of the prejudices or
perceived superiority of higher ranks of society.
Thus portraits of different levels of society were commissioned by
both the sitters and by those who had reason to commemorate or
remember them. The traces of status in the poses, gestures, and accou-
trements of portraiture enabled viewers to respond in a way that tested
their own perceived superiority over, inferiority to, or affinity with the
subjects of the portraits. Portraits of different classes thus required dif-
ferent kinds of signals to engage with the needs of patrons and the
expectations of audiences.
