Art of Scandal: The Life and Times of Isabella Stewart Gardner

Overview

Douglas Shand-Tucci is a historian of American art and architecture and New England studies. His most recent book, Boston Bohemia, 1881-1900, was one of five 1996 Winship/PEN New England Award finalists for best book of the year by a New England author. He lives in Boston's Back Bay at the Hotel Vendome, a place much frequented by both Isabella Stewart Gardner and John Singer Sargent.
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Overview

Douglas Shand-Tucci is a historian of American art and architecture and New England studies. His most recent book, Boston Bohemia, 1881-1900, was one of five 1996 Winship/PEN New England Award finalists for best book of the year by a New England author. He lives in Boston's Back Bay at the Hotel Vendome, a place much frequented by both Isabella Stewart Gardner and John Singer Sargent.
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Editorial Reviews

New Yorker
This intimate, engrossing biography finally gives the creator of one of the world's great museums credit for her achievements.
Library Journal
Isabella Stewart Gardner's life was about as multi-dimensional as anyone's could be. Well acquainted with such luminaries as Bernard Berenson, Julia Ward Howe, Okakura Kakuzo, and T.S. Eliot, she was immortalized by the likes of Henry James in print and John Singer Sargent on canvas during her lifetime (1840-1924). In this first biography of her in 30 years, American art and architecture historian Shand-Tucci examines Gardner as social maverick and as muse to writers and musicians, showing how she went on to create America's first great private art collection and museum in Boston. Using a non-linear approach, he provides a detailed look at a fascinating era and a fascinating woman. -- Ronald Ratliff, Chapman High School Library, Kansas
Library Journal
Isabella Stewart Gardner's life was about as multi-dimensional as anyone's could be. Well acquainted with such luminaries as Bernard Berenson, Julia Ward Howe, Okakura Kakuzo, and T.S. Eliot, she was immortalized by the likes of Henry James in print and John Singer Sargent on canvas during her lifetime (1840-1924). In this first biography of her in 30 years, American art and architecture historian Shand-Tucci examines Gardner as social maverick and as muse to writers and musicians, showing how she went on to create America's first great private art collection and museum in Boston. Using a non-linear approach, he provides a detailed look at a fascinating era and a fascinating woman. -- Ronald Ratliff, Chapman High School Library, Kansas
NY Times Book Review
The life of a mercantile heiress who, with splendid disregard for 19th-century mores, drove too fast, smoked too much and in between amassed a museumful of the most magnificent art ever collected.
The New Yorker
This intimate, engrossing biography finally gives the creator of one of the world's great museums credit for her achievements.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780060929770
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 11/1/1998
  • Pages: 351
  • Product dimensions: 6.15 (w) x 9.19 (h) x 0.94 (d)

Read an Excerpt


Part One

Madonna

The society [Henry] James knew was a performance . . . in which the performerswore masks and costumes. . . . the audience was expected to imagine theactual bodies beneath the costumes and the secret acts of love and violencethat occurred offstage. The performance was a dance of the powerful, wholoved, abused, and sometimes freed their beloved victims, and of the victimsthemselves who, all too rarely, succeeded in achieving freedom and power.
—Sheldon M. Novick


First Reverie
Comedy and tragedy: Isabella Gardner and John Sargent, the fourteenth ofSeptember, 1922. It was a wintry business, though it was still autumn—hislast portrait of her. What was it Oscar Wilde had said? "The soul isborn old, but grows young. That is the comedy of life. The body is bornyoung and grows old. That is life's tragedy."
This last portrait was a very different portrait than Sargent's first, paintednearly thirty-five years previously. Then she had been a vigorous womanof forty-seven, in high middle age: with its striking disclosure of herstrength of character—that steady, appraising gaze—and hardly less soof her bohemian nature—Sargent had looped great ropes of pearls aroundher waist!—that portrait had in many ways in 1888 heralded her growingrepute as a cultural maverick. By 1922 there was no doubt about it. Northat she had become a formidable leader in her field; muse, mentor, patron,collector, connoisseur, and designer. And a scandal too—for so many peopleeverywhere whom she had alternately vexed or fascinated. In 1886 it hadbeen she, through Henry James, who had searched out Sargent.Thirty-sixyears later it was Sargent who sought her out.
She was eighty-two now, paralyzed so that she could no longer walk; forthis last portrait they had had to prop her up like a dummy on a sofa, bracedby pillows. Yet after her death, her friend Corina Smith, studying Sargent'sbrilliant farewell of his friend and patron, saw in Isabella Gardner's eyesthe most improbable thing—elation. The body is born young but grows old.The soul is born old, but grows young. Tragedy and comedy. It was Mary Berensonwho had written Gardner: "Nothing, has ever been wasted on you?"Yes, elation. As soon as she could (she had to wait for the return of hersecretary; all her letters had to be dictated now), Isabella Gardner confidedhappily to Bernard Berenson that her last portrait, no less than had thefirst, was keeping "everyone's tongue busy wagging," adding inher ironic way: "even I think it is exquisite." Dying wouldn'tbe wasted on her either. How many people die exquisitely? But there wouldalways be Sargent's portrait to prove it.
She was burning her letters now too. There were many fireplaces in her apartmenthigh above perhaps the most unusual art museum in the world—the only institutionanywhere, after all, both envisaged and designed by and then named aftera woman—where the woman herself was seeing to her legacy as surely as inanother way was Sargent; keeping this, destroying that, she was editingher life as passionately and as determinedly as once she had formed thefirst and for years the greatest of all the private art collections of theNew World, the glories of which still surrounded her. "Dearest Isabella,"Bernard Berenson wrote, "we are all playing a losing game; you playit better than anyone else in the world." Was that why she triumphedin the end? Did that explain the elation? She had been called the most optimisticof women; her museum, the pride of her life, the most joyful of creations.Yet she had had to hold on to that optimism, that joy, pretty tightly inher life. The fastest of runners as a girl, as an adult Isabella Gardner'scarriages were also always driven, her friend and amanuensis Morris Carterrecalled, "at top speed." It was her great contemporary, TheodoreRoosevelt, who wrote: "Black care rarely sits behind a rider whosepace is fast enough."

Venice—there, certainly, were the finest memories of her youth. "Risinglike water-columns from the sea; Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart":so Byron hymned that legendary Italian city in its elegiac nineteenth-centurytwilight. And so in his way did Wagner, who, as it happens, died there:the drama of his funeral flotilla making its way up that age-old stage set,the Grand Canal, evokes in my mind's ear the long passionate rapture oflonging and finding, or, it may be, betrayal, that one hears in Tristan;themes that resonate in all our lives. The opera itself was well known toIsabella Gardner; she loved Wagner's music. And in her old age she probablyhad learned that Tristan was the work the composer began writing in thevery year that at the age of seventeen, in 1857, Isabella first saw Venice.All the story of her life suggests she lost her heart there. She once querieda friend, "Does your heart ache with mine for Venice?"
She was Isabella Stewart then, Belle to family and friends, born April 14,1840, not quite but almost the brash young "American girl" HenryJames would shortly explicate so well; in Italy with her parents, Davidand Adelia Stewart of New York.11 Educated at the sort of front-parlor schoolthen so popular among the well-to-do of Manhattan, but also, briefly, ata Roman Catholic convent school (though the Stewarts were earnestly lowchurch Episcopalians, parishioners of New York's fashionable Grace Church),Isabella had been brought up under a genteel though somewhat restrictedregime—her mother had the reputation of being strict enough—in the sortof overstuffed mid-Victorian town house whose decor in her maturity Isabelladoubtless preferred to forget.
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Sort by: Showing 1 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 6, 2001

    Great subject, atrociously written

    A friend lent me this book because I am very interested in Isabella Gardner, particularly with respect to her relationship with Sargent. Unfortunately, Mr. Shand-Tucci's writing style makes this book unreadable. [All of the customer reviews I've seen on another site echo this opinion.]His incessant use of ridiculous punctuation and sentence structure, irrelevant distractions, and constant attempts to ascribe homosexuality to nearly every person and thing, is incredibly irritating. A typical sentence: A number of Hall's letters to her survive in her papers and his direct, no-nonsense requests for money for financial aid of all sorts, and Gardner's openhanded response, as well as her concerns for his health, and consequent invitations to rest up at her country estate, all argue for a close mutual understanding and sympathy- as, above all, does the fact - utterly overlooked and ignored until now - that this Oxford graduate's most widely read book of readings was dedicated to Isabella Gardner - a dedication as key to understanding Gardner's role in Boston as the many better-known dedications of literary and musical works to her of which so much is always made. .....Painful to type, and torturous to read for 300 pages. Which I quit doing after 150, and simply skimmed for references to Sargent. I learned how to write better than this in 8th grade. The most remarkable thing about this book is the fact that such a dreadful writer could even manage to get it into print.

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