Today we visited the Frick Collection. It’s a smallish museum, with an intensity of masterpieces sited in an opulent gilded age setting, the paintings surrounded by 18th century furniture, sevres porcelain, and small bronzes. There aren’t just three Vermeers, there are three beautiful Vermeers, and not just a Bellini, but of St. Francis basking in a heavenly light that bathes all the marvelous details in a warm glow, as well as a touching late Rembrandt self-portait, a Renoir tucked at the base of the stairway around the corner from a Bronzino portrait and a Degas, and Holbein’s tour-de-force portrait of Sir Thomas More next to El Greco’s “St Jerome.” The paintings are not arranged according to subject matter or period, but set in relation to each other and their surroundings. In the larger gallery are four portraits by Whistler, one in each corner of the room, and each a “symphony” on the theme of a single color or two. I find myself drawn more these days to Whistler, whose paintings are like cake frosting, a lushness poised to melt into abstraction. The Gainsboroughs are thrilling for their subject matter and arch artificiality, but I’m not very interested in the paint. Unlike the late Goyas on display downstairs, which are painted in broad powerful strokes. Several portraits directly prophesize the coming of Manet.
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