Over two decades from 1898 to 1908, American-British impressionist John Singer Sargent was commissioned to paint twelve portraits of Asher Wertheimer and his family. Nine of these portraits were bequeathed to the British nation in 1922 and later transferred to Tate.
These portraits have been the subject of criticism and gross antisemitism from the moment of their acquisition – for being excessive and ugly – and art historical critique over time has at times misread orientalist tropes used by Sargent. However, revisionist critique written from the point of view of social relations between the artist and family suggests much greater complexity in what was being represented – an ironic orientalism framed by English aristocratic conceits.
This framing is no better illustrated than by successive interpretations of the portrait of Almina (1908), the last of Singer Sargent's Wertheimer commissions. In a similar vein to former interpretation, the 2024 exhibition 'Sargent and Fashion' at Tate and Museum of Fine Arts Boston, remains focused on how and why Almina is dressed in an outlandish turban and a garment resembling a silk dressing gown, variously identified as 'Persian', or more recently 'Turkish'. Who was being an orientalist and who was being orientalised? Was Almina being used as an orientalising stooge by Sargent? If so, why didn't he do this in the other family portraits? Was Almina herself indulging in exotic cosplay without due regard for the alleged cultural heritage of these garments and the instrument she held in her hand?
The portrait of Almina represents a curious paradox. The portraits of Almina's older sisters, such as Ena and Betty (1901), and that of Asher himself (1898) have dominated speculation on the nature of the relationship between patron and artist, Sargent's painterly accomplishments, his possible antisemitic biases in their representation, and his fascination with clothing. But the portrait of Almina stands out as it leans heavily on the symbolism of the sitter's costume and props which apparently project Almina's exotic sensuality. Almina's own voice and agency have been missing in much of the historical interpretation of the painting. Critics and historians have objectified her through comparisons with Van Dyck's Lady Shirley (1622) and a lost portrait of Mrs Charles York by Joshua Reynolds (about 1763), as well as perhaps misreading the artist's uses of 'oriental courtesan' tropes, such as in the costume, gaze and the suggestive cut melons at Almina's feet – which could have been attempts at humour, mocking the stereotype.
Teresa, or Teresia Sampsonia, Lady Shirley (1589–1668)
1622
Anthony van Dyck (1599–1641) 
While the most recent interpretation of Almina has eschewed her objectification in favour of more agency in her portrayal by the sitter, that agency is tempered by an assertion by recent commentators (such as curators of recent exhibitions) that Almina was engaging in the kind of cultural appropriation that was widespread among English female aristocracy.
Two items are highlighted repeatedly in Tate's catalogue record which states: 'The sitter... wears Persian costume and holds a Persian sixteenth-century eight-stringed lute.' Various updates to these identifications include the idea that the coat she is wearing is in fact a Turkish man's coat, and that it appears in other Sargent paintings, for example, the 1889 portrait Dorothy Barnard (1878–1949), now in the collection of The Fitzwilliam Museum.
Most recently, the garment has been identified as a woman's Turkish robe called an entari. Jane de Glehn, a portrait artist and another of Sargent's sitters, wrote of the 'Turkish costume' in her diary while also referencing Sargent's extensive wardrobe of 'Oriental dresses.' The roots of the description of 'Persian' costume are unclear. What is clear is that neither the coat, gown, nor the turban encrusted with pearls resemble anything contemporary Iranians or Turks, or even historical Iranian or Turkish women would have worn, so cultural appropriation also seems a tenuous claim.
Both Sargent and Almina Wertheimer – by virtue of her father's work as an art dealer – had access to any number of props, particularly of the kind used by artists and theatres to concoct ironic and fantasy English orientalist ideals. The family similarly had access to the latest contemporary couture, evidenced in the other eleven Wertheimer portraits split between Tate and various US collections.
The instrument has been the subject of as much speculation, particularly following a suggestion from a Tate employee in 1990, that it was not a sitar or lute but an Indian sarod, and that Almina is not depicted playing it as it should be played: in a vertical position. While this new information has been incorporated into the interpretation most closely situated with the painting, it is questionable, and shows no evidence of verification.
A closer look suggests that this too was a prop that may not have been a playable instrument at all, perhaps the kind manufactured as an ornament for tourists, ending up in flea markets in Paris and London. The sarod – a lute-like instrument from northern India and Pakistan – started to develop in form and complexity at just the time Almina's portrait was painted. It is played on the lap in a horizontal position and sounded with a plectrum, with a metal fingerboard to aid sliding. Even as an ornament, Almina's instrument does not reflect contemporary uses of the sarod – an important instrument in Indian classical music. It more closely resembles the rabab, played in Afghanistan. The lack of strings depicted may be a consequence of Sargent's painting style or could be that it just did not have any.
Almina also appears in a group portrait (1905) completed by Sargent three years before her portrait, with her brother Conway and sister Hylda, where Almina is portrayed quite differently, in country riding gear and with a wise and knowing gaze. To consider the two portraits alongside each other, and what is known about Sargent's friendship with the Wertheimer family, might provide more empathetic and culturally informed interpretation. Emily Moore sums this up well: 'This is the image that demonstrates most clearly that even with the "otherness", the exotic elements, Sargent is able to create a personal and exceptional likeness of these Wertheimer family members based on his close relationship with them.'
In spite of the cultural rehabilitation the Wertheimer portraits have had since their acquisition, thanks in large part to the landmark exhibition by the Jewish Museum, New York, in 1999–2000, the Wertheimers themselves are othered in Tate's long-term gallery and catalogue entries. The siblings in the group of Hylda, Almina and Conway reinforce the mismatch between the family's actual and borrowed social status. This time, the setting is typically neoclassical, a portrait 'in the grand manner designed to confirm aristocratic status.' The label goes on to point out that this 'tradition is adopted by a wealthy, middle-class Jewish family.'
Whose prejudices are on display here? Since the Jewish Museum exhibition, the socio-political context of the Wertheimer portraits has been brought to the fore. It marked the first time all twelve of the portraits had been viewed together since they left the Wertheimers' home at 8 Connaught Place, London. A suggestion was made that the grand commission was a purposeful effort between Asher Wertheimer and John Singer Sargent to use the portraits to make a point about the nature of English society and prevailing attitudes, not least antisemitic and class-based prejudices against wealthy Jews. Andrew Stephenson explains this view: 'What the critical evaluation of Sargent's portraits indirectly attest to is the problematic nature of representing Jewish identities as ethnically distinctive and cosmopolitan yet coded as appropriately "anglicized" and "naturalized" at a time of shifting Anglo-Englishness.' Almina's portrait is the most significant piece of evidence that this might have been the case.
As a patron of the arts, Asher Wertheimer wanted to support Singer Sargent's career and ensure a high-profile legacy for both of them. The bequest to the nation was a way of ensuring a legacy for the Wertheimers as patrons of the arts and influential members of British society. However, the effort was short-lived. The initial acquisition of the Wertheimer portraits by The National Gallery, including Almina, were the subject of a vicious and excoriating attack in the House of Commons on 8th March 1923. Questions were asked about the seeming excess of the bequest (an antisemitic trope), whether there was room for nine portraits, and what precedent existed for the works of living artists to be exhibited at The National Gallery (Sargent had already exhibited works there). It was left to Sir Charles Oman, MP for the University of Oxford constituency and Professor of Military History, to ensure the disgust of certain members was noted for posterity: 'Can the right hon. Gentleman manage that these clever, but extremely repulsive, pictures should be placed in a special chamber of horrors, and not between brilliant examples of the art of Turner?'
It took until 2022 for the nine Wertheimer portraits at Tate to be displayed as a group since their transfer from The National Gallery in 1926. The display's introduction recognised the importance of the socio-political context of all of the portraits, including Almina, particularly citing the rise in antisemitism in the 1920s, and the stereotyping and racism evident in their reception.
The fixation on trying to locate the specific cultural heritage of the portraits, borrowed and appropriated or not, seems to obscure the broader significance of the portraits in the history of our national collections. Is it possible that it could be the writers of interpretation and literature that have betrayed these prejudices, rather than the artist, patron or sitters? In spite of the very obvious orientalist tropes, and the more subtle ones, the history of Almina and all of the Wertheimer portraits represents an opportunity to reflect on how curatorial interpretation can misrepresent stereotypes when they are made superficially, but can also reveal their value when interrogated more deeply.
Tehmina Goskar, curator and historian
This content was published as part of the Transforming Collections project
Further reading
Kathy Adler, 'John Singer Sargent's Portraits of the Wertheimer Family', in Linda Nochlin and Tamar Garb (eds), The Jew in the Text, Thames and Hudson, 1995, pp.83–86
Erica H. Hirshler (ed.), Sargent and Fashion, Tate, 2024
L. Norman Kleebatt, John Singer Sargent: Portraits of the Wertheimer Family, Jewish Museum, 1999
Emily Louisa Moore, 'John Singer Sargent's British and American sitters, 1890–1910: Interpreting cultural identity within society portraits', PhD thesis, University of York, 2016
Andrew Stephenson, '"A keen sight for the sign of the races": John Singer Sargent, whiteness and the fashioning of Anglo-performativity', Visual Culture in Britain, 6 (2), 2005, pp.207–225
Jean Strouse and Caroline Corbeau-Parsons, 'Portrait of a family: Sargent's Wertheimers', London Art Week Symposium, 2021
