Let’s Look At… “Study for ‘Prometheus’” (Art analysis essay)
Study for “Prometheus,” 1916-1921
Oil painting on canvas, 45” × 45” (144 × 114 cm)
John Singer Sargent (1856-1925)
Study for “Prometheus”, 1916-21. John Singer Sargent.
I stumbled upon Study for “Prometheus,” 1916-21, by chance while scrolling through the image collections on Google’s Arts and Culture app. The work attracted me with its pale yellow ochre figure outlined in a deep violet hue and surrounded by a bold teal background. The paint is applied rather flatly and for that reason resembles something you’d see from contemporary Superflat artist Aya Takano, or from illustrator-turned-fine-art-painter Rebecca Leveille. Picture me surprised then when I scrolled down the web page to see the name John Singer Sargent—an artist that I’ve long dismissed as dull for his iconic portraits of society people from the turn of the 20th century.
This unusual departure might be explained by the title itself, which describes the work as a “study.” Generally a “study” is a term an artist uses to denote a work as preparatory, rough, and/or unfinished. Most studies are small sketches on paper in a material like graphite or watercolor. It should be noted though that Study for “Prometheus” is an oil painting on canvas at 45 × 45 in (144 × 114 cm), revealing the somewhat arbitrary use of the label in this case.
I’ve often seen discourse in the comments section of Instagram, where users react to popular artists posting refined drawings as “#sketches,” much to the chagrin of young artists still trying to unlock the mysteries of proportion and perspective. And in the wild west of the contemporary art world, one artist’s “study” could easily be another artists finished gallery work.
It may be moot then to react to a work that is technically incomplete. But I’m not interested in looking at art purely from a historical context, which tends to focus on the wider influence of an artist in the greater Canon. As a working artist today, I regularly approach art as a source of influence. I evaluate a piece for its intrinsic visual value and measure those properties against my current concerns. Regardless of the final version of this piece or the intent of Sargent, I’m more interested in analyzing the 100-year-old Study for “Prometheus” for its qualities that initially struck me as feeling so fresh and contemporary.
Madame X, 1883-84. John Singer Sargent.
The prevailing color palette in Study for “Prometheus” is a red-violet, blue-green, and yellow-orange triad. The colors are shockingly bright compared to notable works by Sargent such as Madame X, 1883-84, which falls more in line with his familiar use of earth tones and strong areas of black that envelope his figures.
Barberini Faun, c. 220 B.C.E., Greek Hellenistic.
Study for “Prometheus” is contained within a circular composition and features a reclining figure atop a nondescript surface, likely a rock slab. The central figure’s body contorts backwards, face hidden from view, in a pose that might resemble ecstatic release—like in the erotic Hellenistic sculpture the Barberini Faun, c.220 B.C.E—if it were not for the other figure in the scene.
Menacingly perched atop the main subject is a large predatory bird invading from the top third of the composition. We see the bird’s roughly outlined talons gripping onto the writhing figure beneath for stability. The bird descends its pale pink head into the exposed flesh of the central figures belly but Sargent spares us of any gory details.
The head of the bird has a phallic appearance, which is ironic considering that the mostly nude male figure beneath has his genitalia surreptitiously hidden beneath a cascading cloth. We do see one nipple but just as a ruddy smudge. Zoom in close enough though and you’ll see something even more revealing—the under-drawing lines, charcoal or pencil, emerging through the thin oil paint layers of the figure.
Shackles lock around the man’s ankles and wrists. I become more aware of this as a “study” when I observe that the chain on his right ankle looks incomplete. The chain lacks a strong shadow and looks like it’s floating on the picture plane. Presumably, the figure is trying to pull his knee up to be met with the taut resistance of his bonds hammered into the rock. These chains, however, appear translucent and sketched into the scene, almost like an afterthought.
It reminds me of my undergrad days when my figure drawing professor would chastise the class for spending the bulk of our time rendering a torso, while the hands, feet, and head went entirely neglected. Any artist could tell you why we did this though. Hands and faces are complex areas of the body which require a lot of careful attention. When you’re in a rush, say in the case of a 20-minute pose during a figure model session, you must work with haste to capture the details that matter most. That’s why I assume Sargent worked on this piece with some speed, taking care not to become too precious about the details.
Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, 1885-86. John Singer Sargent.
The figure for that matter is still beautifully rendered, particularly a foreshortened knee that juts out at the viewer. Sargent expertly reveals his command of anatomy with the simplicity of line, shape, and a few carefully placed brushstrokes to capture the bent form.
If you look just to the bottom right of the composition you’ll notice a strange little swirl of red and yellow. Most people could recognize this bundle as fire, although with its flat color and soft outlines, it feels more like a caricature than a faithful depiction of fire. Compare this to an earlier work by Sargent titled Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, 1885-86, wherein two young girls hold lanterns that radiate a warm glow among an evening garden. The fire in Study for “Prometheus” looks more like the animated character Calcifer, a cute fire demon from Hayao Miyazaki’s film adaptation of Howl’s Moving Castle (2004). It hardly makes logical sense when you again consider that this scene unfolds on a rock slab with no apparent fuel source in view.
Still from Howl’s Moving Castle, 2004. Studio Ghibli.
But by this point its clear that this is not a real world scene concerned with naturalism, but is in fact an illustration of a very iconic story. The image depicts the myth of Prometheus, the ancient Greek god who stole fire from the gods and then gifted it to humanity. This study shows the moment just before Prometheus’ gruesome punishment for his affront to the Olympus gods, wherein his liver is gored by a ravenous eagle. The greatest cruelty being that as a god himself, death is not a mercy he is granted and so each day, once his liver regrows, the torturous cycle repeats.
Before this work, I don’t think I had ever seen any mythological subjects by Sargent. I’m still hard pressed to find many except for a series of murals he worked on at the end of his life (this study included among them). Sargent came up as a painter in the western tradition, taking influence from Neoclassical and Grand Manner styles. He was also clearly influenced by the Impressionist movement that by that time had arrived to America from Europe. In much of his work, Sargent depicts faithful, albeit idealized, likenesses of real world figures and places. Study for “Prometheus” subverts that norm though with its explicit mythological subject.
Which brings me to a question that I ask myself often...When faced with the dilemma of depicting a fictitious subject—what does an artist do?
In my experience, I fall back on instinct. I’ll refer to a muscle memory of what I’ve drawn before. This produces a result that often lacks a realism present in my works when I draw directly from life. I think this is owed mostly to the clear sense of light one can observe. Photo references can supplement working from life, but I find there’s still a great deal of interpreting that happens. Even with the vast image libraries available online, photo reference retains a stiffness that is hard to break in a painting. That’s why I mostly look at historical and contemporary painters for reference, because even more so than photos, the work of other painters tends to better elucidate the alchemical process by which paint transforms into image.
I know that just a kiss will take me far away, 2006. Aya Takano.
Two such contemporary painters that I noted earlier are Aya Takano and Rebecca Leveille. Both of these artists come from backgrounds in the commercial illustration and design industries; Takano briefly worked as a designer at Nintendo Games while Leveille was an early freelance illustrator, best known for her work on the popular card game Magic the Gathering from role-playing game company Wizards of the Coast. Both of these artists cite illustration as a major influence in their fine art practice. Their paintings ride a line between popular cartoon and traditional fine art. Takano has cited art historical works from the Japanese Ukiyo-e period as major influences. Leveille cites Pre-Raphaelites in hers. Both of these artists are unafraid of blurring the lines between conventionally high and low art forms.
And then, and then, and then, and then, and then, 2006. Takashi Murakami.
Study for “Prometheus” is an obscure piece for Sargent but it reminded me of a quality I’ve observed in artists such as Takano and Leveille, wherein flatness emerges from fictional subjects. By flatness I refer to formal qualities, like the outlines in 19th century Japanese prints or the bold, flat color of American Pop Art in the 1970’s, which bring attention to the surface of a two-dimensional artwork. Popular Japanese artist Takashi Murakami addressed this emerging phenomenon in his manifesto Superflat (2001) in which he coins the term as a new art movement originating from Japan. He cites the rising popularity of cartoons, animation, and comics in the post-war era of Japan as a driving force behind the Superflat trend.
My own work as a comic illustrator specifically leads me to evaluate my relationship with flatness in my painted works. I question how to balance the imagined and the observed. Most of my early fine arts training privileged observation above all else. The old adage goes, “Draw what you see, not what you think you see.” But illustration requires invention, which drives an image into the flattened world of caricature.
The downside of illustration is that it crafts explicit fantasy that can feel inauthentic and like wishful escape. That said, faithful representation has its downsides too. I often feel alienated from the sitters in many of Sargent’s traditional portraits. The power of illustration is that the simplicity of form paradoxically makes it easier to relate to a figure. Scott McCloud references this phenomenon in his 1993 graphic novel Understanding Comics. He describes a continuum of representation, with photo-realism on one extreme, and flat cartoon on the other. For example, cartoonist Charles M. Schulz’s iconic Peanuts character Charlie Brown is only drawn with a handful of lines. Like a smiley face emoji, that simplicity is what allows a viewer to more easily empathize with Charlie Brown.
Understanding Comics, 1993. Pg. 52-53. Scott McCloud.
I find it refreshing to see Study for “Prometheus” in the context of Sargent’s larger oeuvre. It presents a point of contrast to compare Sargent’s range in representation. His clear knowledge and experience with painting from life clearly shapes the ease by which he paints his figures. When pushing himself to illustrate a myth like Prometheus, his work takes on a new vitality compared to some of his more straight-forward portraits.
Resting, c.1880-90. John Singer Sargent.
Portrait of Paul-Cesar Helleu, c.1880s. John Singer Sargent.
A Study, date unknown. John Singer Sargent.
Since discovering this work, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find many other pieces by Sargent that upend my assumptions about him as an artist. One such piece is a small watercolor titled Resting, c.1880-90. It’s a colorful and bright study of a woman reading while seated against a tree. It was probably painted quickly because of the loose brushwork and its small scale at 4 1/2 × 6 7/8 in (11.5 × 17.4 cm). It resembles a still from the 1940s era of Disney animated films. Another work, Portrait of Paul-César Helleu, c.1880s, is a watercolor that shows a seated man reclining in a chair. You can see the rough sketch marks of a pencil under drawing with broad strokes of watercolor. Sargent allows the paint to bleed and blur any clearly defined lines, lending to a sense of immediacy. In a lithograph titled A Study, date unknown, we also see a man roughly sketched into a scene where he groggily sits at the edge of a bed. The mark making is controlled but aggressive, suggesting a quickness of Sargent’s hand when filling-in large areas with value.
I like Sargent when he’s working fast. Speed seemed to push him to rely on his well-honed instinct. It’s not to discredit the beauty of his refined portraits. As a young painter myself, I gravitate towards his studies because they feel animated with his touch. They’re more revealing of him and his process. It’s refreshing to see the raw mark-making, line work, and broad application of paint in his studies in contrast to his controlled, formal techniques with oil.
Study for “Prometheus” revealed to me an immediacy that is too often lost in today’s super slick contemporary art world, populated with perfectly polished works, created en masse like an assembly line products, and usually bearing little to no trace of an artists unique handiwork. Such big name contemporary artists like Takashi Murakami, Jeff Koons, Kehinde Wiley, and Damien Hirst (just to name a few) all employ large scale studio productions to make their work. They own the ideas and methods, but have little part in the physical craft anymore. There’s no denying the importance of contemporary artists operating their brand like smart business moguls. I’m always in favor of artists making money. There’s even a precedent for these kinds of studio productions in art history, established by such notable painters like Rembrandt or Peter Paul Rubens.
Alice Vanderbilt Shepard, 1888. John Singer Sargent.
Sargent was savvy of the economics of being an artist and he painted many faithful and idealized portraits in stunning detail for a variety of well-paying clients. But today, faithful and idealized portraits are as ubiquitous as the smart phones they’re captured on and the Instagram filters they’re modified through.
I want to see more of the uneasy handling of line that artist Aya Takano implements to reflect the adolescent figures of her work; or, the curving and bulging anatomy of Rebecca Leveille’s graphic figures that hint at her background in the bombastic world of comics; or, the swift gestures that John Singer Sargent used when quickly sketching a scene.
I’m enthralled seeing the rough hand of the artist in an artwork like Study for “Prometheus” because I feel starved and left wanting in that imperfection, among the glut of sleek, infallible art in the contemporary scene. My favorite art is more triumphant with its faults, not in spite of them.
Study for “Prometheus” looks fresh because of Sargent’s nonchalance. Sargent seems unbothered to get everything perfect in this particular piece because it had the freedom to just be a “study.” Like the work of Aya Takano or Rebecca Leveille, Sargent allows his preparatory drawings to show through in thin layers of oil; the proportion and scale of figures is pushed for emotional effect rather than anatomical accuracy; and secondary details in the scene can just be a series of suggestive marks. I want to retain that rough, sketched quality in my own finished works, revealing the process in the art itself. Maybe if Sargent were a working artist today he could have just dropped the term “study” altogether and called this piece Prometheus.
Study for “Prometheus,” 1916-21. John Singer Sargent.
