Following the intrigued gaze of art historians and art lovers who looked at the fragments of Massis’ “Ugly Lady,” the question arises: who is actually depicted in this mysterious painting? Deciphering this riddle becomes an important research question, causing interest and controversy in the art world.

Identity Research: The Mysterious Image in the Massis Painting

 

Behold, a masterpiece that has captivated the minds of art enthusiasts and historians alike within the hallowed halls of London's National Gallery. Its subject, an enigmatic figure with a countenance that defies convention, has stirred the imagination of many, including the illustrious John Tenniel, whose creative genius breathed life into the whimsical world of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.

Yet, amidst the allure of this painting, mysteries abound, shrouding its origins in a veil of uncertainty. Who, pray tell, is the unfortunate soul immortalized on canvas? And did her visage truly resemble the curious depiction before us? These questions, like whispers carried by the wind, have echoed through the corridors of time, beckoning art historians to unravel the enigma.

Grotesque image

This painting, a profound exploration of ugliness, transcends mere brushstrokes to deliver a mesmerizing glimpse into the complexities of human perception. Gaze upon the elderly subject, her features boldly defying conventional norms. With a nose so short it seems almost a mere suggestion, and an upper lip stretching into infinity, she commands attention. Her hand rests delicately on the marble parapet, a testament to the grace hidden beneath the surface of her unconventional appearance.

Yet, it's the intricacies that truly captivate the eye - folds of skin cascading around her jawline like a cascade of fabric, while spots and veins form a delicate tapestry upon her weathered skin. A single hair sprouts defiantly from a wart upon her cheek, a whimsical detail amidst the portrait's solemnity.

Despite her unconventional visage, she exudes an undeniable air of elegance and aristocracy. Adorned in attire reminiscent of a bygone era, she stands as a relic of antiquated fashion. Her tightly laced corset accentuates her ample bosom, a symbol of femininity preserved through the passage of time.

A scarlet rosebud nestled against her décolletage adds a pop of vibrant color to the muted tones of her attire. Her hair, neatly tucked beneath a heart-shaped cap, is veiled in white, the fabric cascading like a waterfall around her shoulders. A resplendent gold brooch, adorned with pearls and diamonds, serves as a testament to her status, despite society's dismissal of her unconventional beauty.

 

Picture this: a pair of paintings, separated by oceans yet bound by their shared essence. One resides in the hushed halls of a private collection in New York, while its counterpart graces the walls of the Musée Jacquemart-André in the romantic streets of Paris. Together, they form a tantalizing duo, each offering a unique perspective on the human condition.

In this particular scene, our attention is drawn to a figure reminiscent of Philip the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, a powerful presence in the annals of history. Yet, there's a twist - his attire, a curious amalgamation of Burgundian fashion from a bygone era, hints at a playful mockery of convention.

These seem to be two caricatures mocking the vanity of old and ugly people who dress and act as if they are still young. A woman, an elderly seductress, offers her partner a rosebud with sexual overtones.

Her half-naked breasts are a parody of the temptations of the flesh, and the horns of her headdress are devilish.

Masseys and Leonardo

Relatively recently - in 2008 - art historians made two rather unexpected discoveries. Firstly, the portrait is true, the woman almost certainly looked like that. And, secondly, the long-standing theory that the artist copied his contemporary Leonardo da Vinci is wrong.

 

Quentin Masseys, much like his Italian counterpart, harbored a fascination for the enigmatic and the peculiar. Their mutual intrigue seemed to transcend borders, evidenced by their purported exchange of sketches. The legend surrounding The Ugly Duchess once suggested its genesis from a now-vanished drawing by the hand of Leonardo da Vinci himself: remnants of this tale reside in two replicas housed in the Royal Library of Windsor Castle and the New York Public Library, both crafted by da Vinci's disciples. Yet, these copies, while bearing semblances, falter in capturing the essence, depicting facial features and attire with altered proportions, rendering them less convincing. A more compelling narrative emerges when considering that it was Massys who, perhaps, dispatched his rendition of The Ugly Duchess to Leonardo, only to have it replicated by the maestro's apprentices who, in their attempts, inadvertently skewed proportions, simplified forms, and misconstrued the outlandish allure of the Burgundian attire.

The intricacies of technical analysis unveiled a riveting truth: the painting stands as an original masterpiece, not a mere imitation. Delving into the artist's process reveals a meticulous attention to detail. As the brush danced upon the canvas, each stroke echoed the preliminary sketch, yet not without its own artistic evolution. With deft precision, the eyes were rendered twice, subtly shifting upward and to the right, imbuing the portrait with an enigmatic gaze. The chin, neck, and right ear emerged in paint with a delicate finesse, their proportions refined from their underpainted counterparts, lending a lifelike dimension to the visage. But the artist's scrutiny didn't halt there; the right shoulder and both arms underwent meticulous revisions, each edit a testament to the relentless pursuit of perfection in artistry. Thus, within the layers of pigment and brushstrokes, lies not just a painting, but a narrative of the artist's creative journey, meticulously crafted with every stroke and adjustment.

Doctors' arguments

 

Medical revelations have peeled back the layers of mystery surrounding Masseys' artwork, dispelling the notion of a mere caricature. Instead, it unveils a poignant narrative of human suffering and resilience. The sitter, afflicted by end-stage Paget's disease, found her likeness immortalized on canvas, her skeletal deformities a testament to the chronic ailment's relentless grip.

In the words of Michael Baum, an esteemed professor of surgery at University College London, the portrait speaks volumes of the sitter's profound sorrow. "This woman must have been very, very unhappy," Baum mused, his words echoing with empathy. Yet, amidst the somber diagnosis, Baum finds himself captivated by the painting's meticulous execution and underlying tenderness. "Why did the artist spend so much time and effort just to create a caricature?" he ponders, hinting at a deeper narrative woven within the brushstrokes.

Named after Sir James Paget, the disease's impact on the woman's life was profound, stretching beyond mere physical deformity. Baum, reflecting on the rarity of skull damage, paints a vivid portrait of the woman's likely struggles—unbearable headaches and hormonal imbalances adding layers to her plight.

But perhaps most intriguing is Baum's speculation on the sitter's identity—a powerful woman, perhaps even a duchess, whose visage commanded a princely sum from the artist's brush. "Who else would buy such a painting?" Baum muses, hinting at the societal dynamics at play. In his conviction lies a belief that Masseys' portrayal is not just an artistic rendition but a faithful reflection of the woman's essence—an image as close to reality as brush and pigment can capture.

Margarita Maultash

When it comes to who could pose for a portrait of Masseys, the most often mentioned is Margaret, nicknamed Maultasch, the last ruler of the independent Tyrolean county. She was an outstanding woman of her era, about whom it is worth telling in more detail.

 

At the time of the death of her father Henry of Horutan, young Margaret was only 17 years old. For six of them she was already married to Johann Heinrich, the youngest son of the Czech king John of Luxembourg. The girl remained the last representative of her dynasty. Due to her parent's lack of male heirs, the Tyrol was to be divided between Austria and Bavaria. However, the Tyroleans themselves opposed the separation and demanded that the rights of the legitimate successor of the late count be recognized.

Six years later, Margarita expelled her own husband from the county - she simply did not let him into the castle after the hunt. Let us note that this demarche had a powerful political background, and not the simple desire of a woman to get rid of a boring companion. The Holy Roman Emperor declared her marriage to Johann Heinrich invalid because the couple had not entered into intimate relations. The Countess married the eldest son of Emperor Ludwig V Wittelsbach.

All this caused the indignation of Pope Clement VI, because at that time only pontiffs had the right to grant divorce. Margarita and her husband were excommunicated from the church, and Tyrol was forbidden to conduct all church services.

 

However, in 1348, Margarita still received a church divorce - Johann Heinrich turned to Pope for it, wanting to enter into a new marriage. After 10 years, the anathema was lifted from the countess and her husband.

The couple had four children. The eldest, Herman, died at the age of 17. The second, Meinhard, after the death of his father became co-ruler of his mother in Tyrol, but ruled for only two years. In 1363, he died suddenly at the age of 19. Nothing is known about the fate of Margarita’s two daughters.

 

Amidst the turbulent currents of a bitter feud entwining divorce and remarriage, Margarita found herself ensnared in the web of church propaganda, branded with the epithet "Maultash," or "bag mouth," in a smear campaign orchestrated by her adversaries. The origins of this damning sobriquet shroud themselves in mystery, veiled by the passage of time and the whispers of history. Some speculate it stems from Margarita's physical appearance—a purportedly deformed mouth with a sagging lower lip—a feature that lent credence to the slanderous narrative propagated by Catholic chroniclers. Others suggest a more sinister connotation, linking the epithet to associations with promiscuity and moral turpitude, thus tarnishing Margarita's reputation beyond redemption.

The genesis of "Maultash" can be traced back to the annals of the Saxon World Chronicle in 1366, marking the ignominious debut of a moniker that would haunt Margarita throughout the ages. Subsequent iterations of the epithet ranged from the whimsical to the grotesque, each iteration a testament to the venomous vitriol directed at the beleaguered ruler—Kriemhild, Medusa, Big Mouth, She-Wolf of Tyrol, and the Ugly Duchess, each epithet a barb aimed squarely at her dignity and legacy.

Yet, amidst the cacophony of condemnation, there existed whispers of dissent, voices that dared to challenge the prevailing narrative. Chroniclers like John of Winterthur dared to defy convention, painting a portrait of Margarita as a paragon of beauty and grace—a stark contrast to the caricature painted by her detractors. Alas, the absence of confirmed portraits consigned Margarita to the realm of myth and speculation, her likeness lost to the sands of time.

It wasn't until the emergence of Quentin Masseys' portrait that Margarita's image resurfaced from the depths of obscurity. The connection between the Ugly Duchess and the maligned ruler became a subject of fascination, breathing new life into Margarita's story—a tale of resilience, defiance, and the enduring power of perception.

Image in art

 

In the tapestry of literary and artistic history, the enigmatic figure of Margaret of Tyrol, perpetually shrouded in intrigue and misconception, has woven her way into the fabric of timeless tales and enduring myths.

In 1816, the esteemed Jacob Grimm, renowned for his collection of German folk tales, bestowed upon Margaret a place of honor within his seminal work, "German Sagas." Here, amidst the pages of myth and legend, Margaret's story found sanctuary, immortalized for generations to come. Yet, it was not until the brushstrokes of Quentin Masseys breathed life into her likeness that Margaret's narrative transcended the confines of folklore, igniting the imagination of artists and authors alike.

Enter John Tenniel, the visionary illustrator whose mastery brought to life the whimsical world of Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland." Inspired by Masseys' haunting portrayal, Tenniel conjured forth the Duchess—a character whose presence looms large within the phantasmagoric realm of Carroll's tale. With the publication of the first edition in 1865, Margaret's visage found itself enshrined within the annals of literary history, forever entwined with the fantastical adventures of Alice.

Fast forward to 1923, and Lion Feuchtwanger, a luminary of German literature, seized upon Margaret's narrative with fervor, crafting a novel of profound depth and resonance. In "The Ugly Duchess," Feuchtwanger invites readers to delve into the inner sanctum of Margaret's world—a world characterized by intelligence, education, and the relentless pursuit of understanding. Through Feuchtwanger's lens, Margaret emerges not as a mere caricature, but as a complex and misunderstood woman, her brilliance eclipsed by the prejudices of her time.

Feuchtwanger's poignant prose paints a vivid portrait of Margaret's final days, a haunting tableau of beauty marred by the ravages of time and circumstance. "Margarita stood up, lazily stretched, headed towards the house, dragging her feet heavily," he writes, casting her in a light that transcends mere physicality. "The mouth was protruded like a monkey, the huge shapeless cheeks hung in bags, the whitewash no longer hid the warts"—a poignant reflection of the complexities that defined Margaret's existence, a testament to the enduring power of her legacy.

In conclusion, character identification in paintings, especially by masters such as Massis, remains a challenging research question. Despite various theories and assumptions, there may not be absolute certainty in the definition of the character in Massis's "Ugly". However, the process of deciphering such mysteries stimulates discussion, promotes deep immersion in art history, and opens the door to new discoveries and interpretations. Ultimately, ambiguity may be exactly what makes a work of art so unique and mystical, attracting attention and inspiring the creative mind.

Our catalog presents paintings from various genres and eras, each of which has its own unique atmosphere and mysterious secrets that are worth discussing. From classical portraits to abstract compositions, from ancient myths to modern interpretations, each painting contains a piece of the artist's creative genius. Discussing these secrets and mysteries allows for a deeper understanding of art, its context, and its impact on culture and society. We invite you to immerse yourself in the world of art, solve its mysteries and share your thoughts and impressions with other art lovers.