William Hogarth, Industry and Idleness 2

Almost as intense as my youthful aversion to hard work, built upon the false premise that labor existed only for the sake of amassing fortune and fame, was a similar distaste for the task of attending church, built upon the false premise that public worship existed only so that the blowhards could fulfill their quota of prancing about for the week. 

Once again, taking a moment with Hogarth helped me to reconsider my assumptions. Both working and praying become a joy when they are driven by understanding and by love—the problems arise when we work for greed and pray out of vanity. 

For all of my protests, I always knew that piety was a virtue, because I always knew how what is lesser can only be defined through what is greater. My selfishness, however, would keep me from putting this into practice, and there was no easier excuse for being spiritually lazy than pointing my finger at other people. Look at those hypocrites, pretending to be holy while they satisfy their own appetites! 

This does not, of course, disprove the presence of the Divine, and it only shows why we need those graces all the more. If another man is making a mockery of his duties, am I suddenly allowed to abandon my own? Let him have his worldly amusements, and I can still keep my peace of mind—don't throw the baby out with the bathwater. 

Every Sunday, I was furious with the decadent priests at the altar and the sanctimonious scoundrels in the pews, which did everything to damage me and nothing to improve them. God asks for charity from me, and yet that turns out to be the one thing I refuse to give. 

As much as I appreciate a heady theological argument, this simple image does more for me than any string of syllogisms. It is one thing to merely talk about the qualities of a good man, and quite another to show me the example of a good man. 

Francis, accompanied by his master's daughter, is not interested in putting on some holy show, or catching up on the latest gossip. He is just happy to sing from his hymnal, neither putting on airs nor rolling his eyes in boredom. That he is doing so in the company of a nice young lady is not lost on me, a fellow who wasted too many years chasing after girls who could talk the talk, but would never walk the walk. 

In the top right we have the vain woman and the sleeping man, so commonly found in any place of worship. Francis is wise enough not pay them any heed, since the modest task for the day is right before him. 

We can hardly overlook the figure of the pew opener, the old lady who would guide worshippers to their seats. While it is likely that very few have noticed her, it is clear that Hogarth has noticed her, and I would dare to propose that God has also noticed her humble service. 

Prayer is surely not so taxing when it is actually about devotion, and not reduced to a tedious social performance. 

Psalms 119:97 

O! How I love thy Law it is my
meditation all the day. 

William Hogarth, Industry and Idleness 2: The Industrious Prentice Performing the Duty of a Christian (1747) 

William Hogarth, Industry and Idleness 1

When I first came across this series of prints, I was still in college, and I was deeply confused about where my life would take me. In hindsight, a part of my problem was the very wording of my question, because I should have been more concerned about where I would take my life. 

I had long been told about the importance of hard work, and yet I did not bind my diligence to a sense of joyful duty. While they told me I could be successful if I put in the effort, I was not impressed by the prospect of riches and fame, only coming to appreciate intense labor once I discovered some deeper values worth living for. 

Please don't tell me a man is happy because he is rich, when it actually turns out that he is rich because he is happy. 

So much of Hogarth's work teaches us how virtue will raise us up, just as vice will drag us down, and it employs various images of prosperity and misery to drive the point home. This is a lesson worth learning, at any time or in any place, even if it is presented in an idealized manner. 

There is a danger, however, in treating the good fortune as an end in itself, instead of recognizing it as a consequence of a good character, an outward symbol for an inner commitment. As a child, I wondered what it meant to live "happily ever after" in the fairy tales, and if it was merely about defeating the dragon and winning the heart of the princess. Was the prince still a hero if he tried his best and fell in battle? 

I unfortunately know of far too many noble souls who have done precisely the right thing, only to never receive any earthly reward. I am hesitant to follow those who insist that hard work alone will bring us our happiness, without building upon the foundation of a healthy conscience. 

Our circumstances can be fickle, often unfolding in a way that has no connection to our merits, but what fascinates me about Hogarth's scenario is how both Thomas Idle and Francis Goodchild begin with exactly the same opportunities, and then end up making such radically different choices. In this particular narrative, no one has an unfair advantage, and no one has gotten a raw deal: it almost plays out like a moral experiment under identical conditions. 

The two apprentices are in service to one master weaver, and are asked to perform equal tasks. Nevertheless, Thomas is asleep at his loom, while Francis is at the top of his game. What may at first appear to be the trivial difference between having a good day and having a bad day is really grounded in the most basic judgments about what is "good" and what is "bad". 

One copy of The Prentice's Guide is neglected, while the other is well cared for. Thomas is more concerned with his beer and tobacco, and reading the latest novels, while Francis does not allow himself to be distracted, and keeps up with the local news. 

The Master does not look angry at Thomas—only disappointed. I know that look all too well, and I am now grateful that it eventually had some effect on me. 

The items in the frame are premonitions of their respective futures: to the left, a whip, shackles, and a hanging rope; to the right, a mace, a ceremonial sword, and a chain of gold. 

I have no problem with the cat being a cat, but I do frown upon Thomas not shooing the cat. 

What's that? You say Thomas is at least having some fun, and Francis just looks like a square? Yet regardless of what may come, Thomas is hung over, and Francis is smiling. Maybe it only sounds stuffy to someone who expects to receive and never intends to give. Be careful where you seek your contentment. 

Proverbs 23:21 

The Drunkard shall come to
Poverty, and drowsiness shall
clothe a Man with rags. 

Proverbs 10:4 

The hand of the diligent
maketh rich. 

William Hogarth, Industry and Idleness 1: The Fellow 'Prentices at Their Looms (1747) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode 6

One of my most thoughtful students had a charming habit of asking herself questions out loud, which she would then answer after a brief pause. While others might find this odd, it impressed upon me the importance of an inner dialogue, even if it did happen to seep out into the open from time to time. 

While we were looking over this final entry in the series, she began to wonder: "Why does Hogarth have to be so over the top, so melodramatic? I understand that these folks are selfish, and lustful, and treacherous, but am I expected to believe that this sort of terrible punishment will befall all the villains of the world? I see all kinds of nasty people who are sitting pretty." 

I knew better than to say anything, because she soon offered her own reply: "But they aren't really sitting pretty, are they? Their vices leave them rotting on the inside, though that would make for sort of a boring painting, so Hogarth takes their internal misery and reflects it in an external story. It's like an allegory about the state of their souls. Their Fortune mirrors their Nature." 

Well, there you have it! Your sins might not drag you into poverty, or burden you with some wasting disease, or leave you completely alone, but they will never permit you a moment of peace. 

Silvertongue has been hanged at Tyburn for the murder of the Earl, and the Countess can only return to her perpetually cash-strapped father. Though she has incurred no legal penalty, her life of status is now definitely over. Not even the needs of her child can overcome her guilt—or is it just shame? She has taken a fatal dose of laudanum. 

Only the old maid seems to show any grief. The father is already removing his daughter's wedding ring, the last vestige of her former glory, in a desperate attempt to feed his avarice. The starving dog proves how far he has now fallen. 

The child gives her mother one last kiss, though the marks on her face and the brace on her leg betray her final fate. The doctor berates the servant for having provided the drug, even as he appears more concerned with his professional pride than with his patient's comfort. 

While I do know of some swindlers, dissemblers, and philanderers who found themselves penniless and friendless, I fear that most of them are living under the illusion of success. Don't let yourself be tricked by the facade. 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode VI: The Lady's Death (painting, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode VI: The Lady's Death (engraving, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode 5

A "bagnio" is one of those wonderfully obscure and fascinating terms, though not necessarily the sort of place in which you would like to find yourself. Since I have only seen the word in print, it turns out that I have been mispronouncing it for years. 

Apparently, through the Italian, it could mean either a Turkish prison or bath, and for Londoners it also referred to an exotic coffee house, which quickly degraded into the kind of establishment that would rent rooms for illicit liaisons. A bill on the floor identifies this one as "The Turk's Head". 

After attending the masquerade, as they were planning during the previous installment, everything falls apart for our crafty couple. We can reconstruct the events by the tragic evidence of this scene. 

Silvertongue and the Countess were hoping for a night all to themselves, but it seems that the Earl decided to follow them, confronting the shifty lawyer after breaking down the door. The two men drew their swords, much like contemporary men at a bar might make the challenge to "take it outside", and the cuckolded husband was run through twice. 

Silvertongue now flees out the window in only his nightshirt, as the owner and the night watchman rush into the room. The countess is distraught. Is there actually some genuine love for the Earl in her heart, or is she just realizing that this is the end for her life of luxury? I would like to believe that the shock of loss can suddenly restore our sense of decency and loyalty, even if it has come too little and too late. 

As always, the art on the walls gives us food for thought. Over the door is a depiction of St. Luke, which I initially found odd, until I remembered how our local priest would have his way with women in the sacristy—it takes all kinds. Luke is the patron saint of artists, so it is fitting that Providence is keeping a record. 

The rear wall has a tapestry of the Judgment of Solomon, though I fear that the lesson of sticking to our priorities is sadly wasted on these folks. I am told that the picture on the right is a pastoral scene of a shepherdess, though it has been marred by the twisted face and the exaggerated bosom of a prostitute. A professor once implied that the squirrel on her hand was a dirty reference, yet I can't for the life of me make the connection. Perhaps I am far more prudish and naive than I had thought. 

Those darn mercury pills keep showing up on the floor! 

My many "progressive" friends speak of sex as a casual and liberating thing, even as they overlook how the abuse of love can only result in pain. Nature means for marriage to be an act of absolute and unconditional commitment, so is it any surprise when jealousy rears its ugly head? There is a good reason why your blessed polyamory will leave everyone betrayed, bitter, and alone. 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode V: The Bagnio (painting, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode V: The Bagnio (engraving, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode 4

As indicated by the coronet over the bed and the mirror, our special couple have now inherited the titles of Earl and Countess Squanderfield. Recall that the social status came from the groom's side, though the new money came through the bride, and they hardly seem to have any worldly wants. 

While the high-class practice of the toilette as a social event, an imitation of the royal levee, will appear strange to us, we surely have our own elaborate customs that blur the line between culture and decadence. For my generation, well-to-do people would still show off by hosting dinner parties, which were in themselves painful enough, but the part I could never bear was the extended tour of the house, where the guest was expected to admire every private detail. 

There was the obligatory viewing of each bathroom in the home, and a fellow once proudly displayed a whole closet full of his wife's shoes and lingerie. I much preferred the more homey tradition of looking through old family photo albums. 

Another contemporary instance of flaunting the intimate is our confusion between the clothes we wear at home and the proper dress for going out. My students were already wearing pajamas and slippers to class during the 1990's, and I was barely surprised the other day when an entire family strolled through the grocery store while draped in their comforters. You may say this is only the behavior of the rabble, and yet they drove away in a Range Rover. 

In any case, the accidents of fashion do not make the man—what sort of motives lie behind the exterior? The Countess is ignoring her curious assembly of visitors, which includes an opera singer and a flutist. She only has eyes for the lawyer, Silvertongue, who has now clearly established himself as her lover. Has the Earl bothered to notice another man's portrait hanging in his wife's bedroom? 

The other paintings refer to uncomfortable sexual themes (Lot and his daughters, Jupiter and Io, the rape of Ganymede), reminding me of a creepy colleague whose entire living room wall was covered with artsy nude photographs. 

The African page boy laughs as he point to the horns on a figurine. It had to be pointed out to me that the Countess now has a child, as shown by the coral teether hanging over the back of her chair. The infant's absence speaks volumes about her priorities. 

Silvertongue proposes attending a masquerade ball, where the anonymity allows them to appear together in public, without the risk of scandal. I think of a cheating girlfriend who thought she was being clever by meeting her boys-on-the-side at a bar she assumed I would never frequent; my only excuse for being pathetic was that I somehow hoped she would change. 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode IV: The Toilette (painting, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode IV: The Toilette (engraving, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode 3

I am always delighted to see students thinking for themselves, though asking them to question their most fundamental assumptions will often feel like pulling teeth. I was recently encouraged when an entire classroom of medical ethics students couldn't stop debating about the problem of STD's (which I am now old enough to remember as VD), and I was almost ready to congratulate myself on a job well done. 

It then occurred to me, however, that they had spent most of the hour arguing over the biology, with very little awareness of the morality. Amidst all the talk about prevention and treatment, a young lady was met with blank stares when she asked about the prevalence of promiscuity. 

"Yeah, but with condoms and antibiotics, does that really need to be an issue?" 

Even when challenged, they just couldn't look past the premise that sex was only about pleasure, which must, of course, be freely pursued, as long as it is somehow "safe". When they see a depiction like Hogarth's, they can't perceive how quickly lust turns us into monsters, who treat one another as mere objects be to be exploited. 

Simply put, would the lesson of this scene be any different if it were placed in a modern setting? Will the so-called miracles of science do anything to remove our personal responsibility? 

The Viscount appears to have gotten himself into a difficult spot. complaining to a quack doctor that the mercury pills meant to cure his syphilis are clearly not effective. There are a number of different ways to interpret the situation: Did he infect the young prostitute, or did she infect him? Is the angry woman with the knife her mother or her madam, or perhaps both? Whatever the scandalous details might be, couldn't all of this have been avoided with a touch of self-control? 

The questionable doctor has all sorts of fancy machines, including one to reset a dislocated shoulder, and another intended to work as an automated corkscrew. As much as we would like to think that the technology will always make it better, there is never any substitute for living with love. 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode III: The Inspection (painting, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode III: The Inspection (engraving, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode 2

Somewhere during my youth, I started hearing about "power couples", and the media told us how liberating it was to finally see marriage being employed in the service of professional advancement. Now while it is indeed wonderful when husband and wife support one another in their respective careers, I fear that we are making a tragic mistake if matrimony is judged by standards so mercenary. 

Though I am regularly derided for saying such things, any marriage is doomed to failure if it is not built upon unconditional love, and no amount of money, or prestige, or good looks can ever compensate for such an absence. Perhaps you are smiling, thinking that I only say so because I am not rich, or famous, or handsome, but that might just make me all the more qualified to know what really counts. 

I actually suspect I was once being groomed to become a part of a power couple, a role for which I am completely unsuited, which explains why I was eventually discarded. For all the pain, I should be grateful this occurred before I ended up in the middle of a horrid scene like this one. 

The Viscount and Viscountess now have absolutely nothing to say to each other, caught up in their respective diversions. I have sadly noticed this in so many couples driven solely by their appetites and their ambitions, unable to carry on an intimate conversation once they've finished playing their public roles. It would seem there have always been yuppies in this world. 

The husband looks terribly tired and bored, as the dog has discovered a woman's nightcap in his pocket. His sword lies on the floor, broken, which may be telling us something about the quality of his recent performance on the town. 

The wife smirks and stretches suggestively, having apparently spent the night playing cards—but with whom? It had to be pointed out to me that she may be using a pocket mirror to signal someone out of our view. Good manners keep me from speculating about the stain on her skirt. 

A servant yawns in the background, while another raises his eyes to heaven in disapproval. The one receipt stands in contrast to the stack of bills, indicating that the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree. 

The clock reads 12:20. Whether it is the middle of the day or the middle of the night, the disordered state of the household reveals what we need to know about the disordered state of their souls. 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode II: The Tête à Tête (painting, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode II: The Tête à Tête (engraving, 1745) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode 1

This series may seem rather outdated to our modern sensibilities, since marriage is not currently treated with nearly the same reverence as it once was. Even in my own lifetime, I have noticed how fewer and fewer couples will choose to tie the knot, while those who do will put it off as long as possible, and then they are quick to abandon their sacred promises when confronted with worldly obstacles.

Yet I suspect that people in all times and places are prone to twisting a blessing into a curse, and the health of any social institution will rise or fall with the moral values that stand behind it. I don't know whether to be disturbed or relieved to find that marriage in Hogarth's time was just as prone to abuse as it is in our own day. In the simplest of terms, when we reduce love to a vehicle for greed and lust, very bad things are bound to happen, both on the inside and on the outside of our souls.

These works were not quite as well-received as A Harlot's Progress and A Rake's Progress; perhaps the topic made folks uncomfortable by hitting too close to home? It appears that Hogarth intended to produce a sequel, The Happy Marriage, but this was never completed. I can only imagine it presenting the struggles of loyalty in the face of temptations and hardships, a theme that might be far less titillating but far more inspiring.

Earl Squanderfield is a member of the ancient nobility, but he is short on cash, so he has arranged for his son to marry the daughter of a wealthy merchant, a classic case of "old money" seeking to survive off of "new money". As is true for all grasping folks, who treat one another as means instead of as ends, life is about transactions, and people are little more than disposable commodities. Neither the young nor the old will come off well here, all of them caught up in their selfish desires.

The gouty Earl has been building himself a new mansion, as seen outside the window. He is proud to point to his family tree, though he is not too proud to arrange for the necessary funds by selling his family name to the highest bidder. In return, the stingy businessman gains status and prestige, a step up into the inner circles of high society. A banker is already grabbing his share of the profits as he does the paperwork. 

The son has absolutely no interest in the proceedings, taking a pinch of snuff as he gazes into the mirror at his own handsome visage. The mark on his neck may reveal the signs of syphilis. His bride-to-be is distraught, a handkerchief pulled through the ring. The viewer has little time to feel sympathy, as the root of her own downfall makes an appearance: the shifty lawyer, Silvertongue, is already practicing his charms. 

In one of Hogarth's favorite devices, the two dogs tied to one another reflect the misery of the couple and the absurdities of our human condition. 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode I: The Marriage Settlement (painting, 1743) 

William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode I: The Marriage Settlement (engraving, 1745) 

William Hogarth, Characters and Caricaturas

I do not have the refined eye of an art critic, and I can't keep track of whatever aesthetic happens to be fashionable at the moment, but I do know what I like, and I remain curious enough to ask myself why a certain image may speak to me with more vigor than another. 

Over time, I have begun to identify certain styles and methods that succeed at making me both think and feel in wonderfully unexpected ways. My love of the three Williams—Hogarth, Blake, and Turner—is my own peculiar way of approaching art as if it were the reflection of a most elegant philosophy. 

I know that my preferences are viewed as odd, and so I do not take offense when they are scorned by the in-crowd. I notice how Hogarth is quite often criticized by my peers, on the grounds that he was little more than a vulgar popularizer, and so it doesn't surprise me to see that he was also condemned in his own time. 

This print, I am told, was a deliberate response by Hogarth to the claims that he depicted people in grossly exaggerated ways, merely as heavy-handed caricatures, with little sense of their human depths and subtleties, thereby failing to present them as genuine characters. 

On the bottom left, Hogarth copied three character studies by Raphael, and on the bottom right he copied four caricatures by Carracci, Ghezzi, and da Vinci. He also added a quick line drawing, a sort of comical doodle, to show their pedigree. Above, he then offered a hundred faces representative of his own work. 

The viewer is thus invited to decide for himself whether Hogarth was selling cheap parodies or celebrating nuanced realities. 

I will only comment that I find great pleasure in carefully studying these hundred faces, puzzling about the temperaments and attitudes that stand behind them. I swear that I recognize many of them as folks I have known, with all their quirks and complexities. 

At first, I worried that Hogarth was indeed distorting people's noses too much, until I bothered to carefully observe those around me in crowded places, like trains and restaurants. I was startled to see how truly diverse and peculiar noses can be, bizarre objects that would appear downright ridiculous if they weren't placed right in the middle of our faces. 

Truth can indeed be stranger than fiction. 

William Hogarth, Characters and Caricaturas (1743) 

William Hogarth, Taste in High Life

I would say that the mania for fashion is merely ridiculous, if I did not also see how much harm it does to its flunkies. Every follower believes himself to be the trendsetter, and we end up with a remarkable contradiction, where conformity is taken to be originality. 

If one blindly follows the herd, for a lack of confidence in simply being oneself, the only way to stand out from the crowd is to take the latest trend to ever greater extremes. Once the ungainly apparatus collapses under its own weight, we turn to the next craze, and the entire process repeats itself, driven by an intensity of passion at the expense of a modesty in reason. 

I have now been around long enough to see many extravagant styles come and go, and even to see those same styles return once more, as if they were entirely new. What we mocked a decade ago is again in vogue, with little hope of convincing the hapless consumers that they have unwittingly turned themselves into slaves. 

It is most noticeable in clothing or in music, but it seeps into every aspect of our lives, because it is really about the quality of our thinking. Before we know it, we are bound to obedience in our religion, our politics, and our morals. Needless to say, this is not the life suitable for a creature gifted with the power of free judgment. 

So many of Hogarth's works are critical of restrictive standards, exposing how a surrender to the mob is a surrender of one's conscience. This particular painting is a work of lighthearted satire, yet one must wonder how the little vanities in the parlor are indicative of much greater vanities in the wider world. 

An older, well-to-do couple are decked out in the latest attire of the 1740's, quite oblivious to how superficial and decadent they have become. The woman's exaggerated hoop dress stands out the most, though I also can't help but notice the man's overblown hat, his pointy shoes, and the long braid on his wig. They are engrossed in examining a cup and a saucer, while a pet monkey, also dressed for success, is looking over a receipt for their recent purchase at an auction. 

To the left, a younger woman pets a young African servant, whose grin could just as easily be one of mockery as of deference. Her elaborate dress and his gaudy turban cannot hide the condescension of the gesture. The entire scene is so artificially cultured that is has fallen right back into being vulgar. 

The pictures on the wall continue to lampoon the outsized hooped skirts, with one pasted on a classical nude, and another causing a woman to become trapped in a sedan chair. I think of the bell-bottoms in the 1970's, the parachute pants of the 1980's, and the baseball caps of the 1990's. The more things change, the more they stay the same. . . . 

William Hogarth, Taste in High Life (painting, c. 1742) 

William Hogarth, Taste in High Life (engraving, 1746) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.5

I often feel called upon to use the following illustration, and it seems to me that none expresses more effectively this drama of human life, wherein we are assigned the parts which we are to play so badly. Yonder is the man who stalks upon the stage with swelling port and head thrown back, and says: 
 
“Lo, I am he whom Argos hails as lord,
Whom Pelops left the heir of lands that spread
From Hellespont and from th’ Ionian sea
E’en to the Isthmian straits.”
 
And who is this fellow? He is but a slave; his wage is five measures of grain and five denarii.
 
Yon other who, proud and wayward and puffed up by confidence in his power, declaims: 
 
“Peace, Menelaus, or this hand shall slay thee!” 
 
receives a daily pittance and sleeps on rags. 
 
You may speak in the same way about all these dandies whom you see riding in litters above the heads of men and above the crowd; in every case their happiness is put on like the actor’s mask. Tear it off, and you will scorn them. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 
 
I have gradually learned not to confuse my preferences with principles, to avoid treating my particular tastes as if they were universal laws. I’m afraid I will still slip into the old habit, so common among pseudo-intellectuals, of dismissing any opinion that doesn’t happen to be my own, but I usually catch myself before I have done too much damage. 
 
One instance of my presumption has been an intense dislike of stage plays, especially those that aspire to serious drama. As much as I now immensely enjoy reading Shakespeare, I cringe at what I take to be exaggerated performances, painfully conscious of being duped by histrionics. Am I expected to believe that this spectacle is sincere? 
 
It finally dawned on me how the aversion was less about anyone else’s method of acting, and more about my own cynicism: I am uncomfortable with acting because I assume it is an attempt at deception. I should rightly distinguish between the thespian who wishes to expose a deeper truth, and the charlatan who poses as a far better man than he actually is. 
 
So Seneca’s example helps me to not only look behind the mask, but also to examine the motive for the disguise: some acting reveals, and some acting conceals. I should not allow my personal baggage over trickery to get in the way of appreciating the theater, just as a child should not fear clowns on account of John Wayne Gacy. 
 
Nonetheless, let me always remember why the appearance should never be confused with the reality. Some priests paint their own vanity to look like the will of God, some lawyers seek a cold profit under the guise of caring service, and some friends will cast you aside after speaking fine words of undying love. 
 
Most importantly, let me not become a pretender myself, masquerading as righteous when I am wicked, as fulfilled when I am restless. Perhaps it will, at least for a time, fool others, but I can never run away from myself. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: William Hogarth, David Garrick as Richard III (c. 1745) 

William Hogarth, Strolling Actresses Dressing in a Barn

So much of Hogarth's work combines exquisite detail with subtle meanings that works on many different levels, and this engraving is an ideal example. The original painting was unfortunately lost to a fire in 1874. 

A traveling theater company has made use of an old barn as a dressing room, leading to this surreal scene. The actors play Roman gods and goddesses, contrasting the worlds of the divine and the mortal, the lofty and the mundane. 

The playbill, in the lower left, identifies the production as The Devil to Pay in Heaven, and Hogarth may be poking fun at the church-sponsored morality plays so common at the time. A contemporary viewer would also have been aware that Parliament had recently passed a new law, which heavily censored dramatic productions and outlawed unlicensed troupes. This will be their bittersweet final performance. 

In the center, Diana practices her pose, though she hardly looks like a chaste goddess. To the right, two children dressed as devils drink from a mug of beer, as if taking an offering from an altar, while to the left Flora, the goddess of the spring, dusts her hair in front of a broken mirror. 

A woman grasps a cat as an actress playing a ghost draws blood from its tail, which was apparently a folk remedy for an injury from a fall. Below them, Juno memorizes her lines, Night darns her stocking, and a monkey urinates into a prop helmet. 

To the top left, Cupid recover a pair of stockings for Apollo, and below, a Siren gives Ganymede a drink to help numb his toothache. Aurora is frustrated with fixing Ganymede's dress. An actress dressed as Juno's eagle feeds a child, with the bowl resting on a crown and a copy of the Act against Strolling Players. The playbill is precariously perched over a chamberpot. 

My favorite element of the picture is a caricature of a vanitas painting at the bottom, where two kittens are playing with an orb and a harp. And if you look very closely, a man is peering down through a hole in the roof, referencing the myth of Actaeon seeing Diana naked. 

The little things that happen on Earth are like reflections of the grand drama we imagine is playing itself out in the Heavens, sometimes as a comedy, and sometimes as a tragedy. Do the gods also have to worry about intrusive politicians, or how to feed the baby after losing one's livelihood? 

William Hogarth, Strolling Actresses Dressing in a Barn (1738) 

William Hogarth, The Company of Undertakers

Doctors get a lot of flak, surpassed only by the invectives hurled at lawyers. Though any man, in any trade, has it within himself to become a total scoundrel, I suspect that the quacks and the shysters have targets painted on their backs, because their vocations ought to be so noble, and yet far too many of them are instead seduced by fortune and fame. 

Did you honestly think those mercenary mothers nagged their daughters to marry a surgeon on account of  the rich moral lives they would surely share together? 

In my own neck of the woods, I can confirm that academics are just as likely to be vainglorious blowhards, but the difference is that only other academics will bother to notice. Furthermore, an incompetent plumber will quickly lose his customers, while an incompetent doctor can still hide behind the magnificent appearance of his profession. 

When students see this work by Hogarth, their first reaction is invariably to comment on how ignorant people were back then, and how blessed we are to now be so scientifically enlightened. I encourage them to see the human condition more broadly, and to recognize how charlatans can be found in any time or place, but they remain convinced that modern medicine can do no wrong. I fear some of them will learn otherwise, sooner rather than later. 

Of all the parish priests I had in my adult years, only one stood out as a man of true faith, and the rest were abusers or frauds. Similarly, of all the doctors who ever treated my family, only one was a true healer, and the rest left us both sicker and poorer. You can counter with your clever statistics, and I will rely on my education from the school of hard knocks. I will leave it at that. . . . 

Hogarth presents his doctors in a caricature of a coat of arms, with three infamous snake oil peddlers of his time on the top—John Taylor, Sarah Mapp, and Joshua Ward—and a dozen "reputable" physicians below them. The "quack-heads" and the "cane-heads" differ only by their professional trappings. In modern terms, one dispenses his cures from a storefront in a seedy strip mall, while the other receives junkets from the pharmaceutical corporations. 

The description further mocks their posturing with the refined language of heraldry: 

The company of undertakers beareth, sable, a urinal, proper, between twelve quack-heads of the second, and twelve cane-heads, or consultant. On a chief, nebulae, ermine, one complete doctor, issuant, checkie, sustaining, in his right hand, a baton of the second. On his dexter and sinister sides two demi-doctors, issuant, of the second, and two cane-heads, issuant of the third; the first having one eye, couchant, towards the dexter side of the escutcheon; the second, faced, per pale, proper, and gules guardant. With this motto—Et plurima mortis imago. 

"And many are the faces of death." 

William Hogarth, A Consultation of Physicians, or the Company of Undertakers (1736) 

William Hogarth, The Enraged Musician

This was intended as a companion piece to the print version of The Distrest Poet, and there was apparently a plan to add a third installment about a painter, which was sadly never completed. 

Once again, there is the humorous element, where the refined violinist can't bear all the noise of the rabble outside of his window. How dare the workers and the street musicians get in the way of his high art! The urinating boy dragging a piece of slate across the ground is a classic Hogarth touch. 

On a more serious level, I have been told that this is also a commentary on the state of the contemporary English musical scene, as evidenced by the poster for a performance of The Beggar's Opera, indicating the new popularity of a folksier British style, in contrast to the previous reverence for the fancier Italian tradition. Hogarth apparently approved of this change in fashion. 

I further enjoy another interpretation, that the comely milkmaid, who is certainly the center of visual attention, is singing a lovely song, and yet the violinist is closing his ears to its homespun beauty. 

I understand why the fellow is so frustrated, as I also enjoy my peace and quiet when I am reading, writing, listening to Bach, or smoking my pipe. Nevertheless, there are those times when the sounds of the city are as wonderful as the finest concerto. 

William Hogarth, The Enraged Musician (1741) 

William Hogarth, The Distrest Poet

This image is full of tension for me, since it can be taken as either comic or tragic, and one may either condemn or sympathize with the hapless writer. 

The usual interpretation I come across is that this foolish man has squandered his prospects by committing himself to the arts, while his family is reduced to poverty out of his vanity and indolence. As he struggles with his writer's block, the child cries, the wife darns the old clothes, the dog runs off with their last morsel of food, and the cupboard is empty. The milkmaid demands that her bill be paid. 

While the poor poet attempts to write a work about riches, sitting in his nightgown, there are still signs of the life he has so recklessly abandoned: he is sloppily wearing his wig, a gentleman's sword is on the floor, and his lace cuffs are drying by the fire. Through it all, it seems that he still partakes of his beer and his pipe. 

From the perspective of proper society, this man is a failure, because he refuses to do proper work, to make something of himself. I imagine most viewers take it this way: "Get a job, you lazy bum!" 

At the same time, I can't help but wonder about the relative merits of being a rich man and being a romantic, of selling out to convenience or standing firm on principle. Couldn't he do both, by going to the office by day and expressing his soul by night? That would be ideal, but we all know what happens when we try to serve two masters. 

I am sure Hogarth intends for us to heed a grim warning here, and yet I suspect he may also be asking us to feel a touch of pity. No man should let his child go hungry on account of his daydreaming, and yet what kind of world do we live in, when success is defined by accumulating more and more property, instead of loving the true, the good, and the beautiful? 

"Sure, buddy, but he needs to put food on the table before he has the luxury of thinking!" 

Indeed, that would certainly be the case if we defined the merit of a man by his wallet, not by his virtues, by his gut in the place of his head. If the world has so much room for bankers and lawyers, shouldn't it also have some room for poets? 

I dare to suggest that the problem with this distressed fellow is not a commitment to higher values, but rather his self-imposed blindness to the mundane. He can't really be a good poet if he isn't first a virtuous man, and a virtuous man wouldn't just sit back as his family wastes away. 

Art isn't the problem, and money isn't the problem—the presence or absence of character is the problem, whether it be in the slums or on an estate. 

William Hogarth, The Distrest Poet (painting, c. 1736) 

William Hogarth, The Distrest Poet (engraving, 1741) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day 4

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I have learned the hard way that very little good ever comes from going out late at night, and this image merely confirms the point. A drunken freemason is being escorted home through a neighborhood of pubs and brothels, a coach has overturned next to a festive bonfire, and a boozy barber perilously plies his trade. The landlord watering down the wine looks remarkably like a sleazy bartender I once knew. And always be wary of the flying contents from a chamber pot. 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Night (painting, 1736) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Night (engraving, 1738) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day 3

On what must be a hot evening, as shown by the pregnant woman fanning herself and the panting dog, a family walk in the suburbs, perhaps having attended the theater. I am told he must have been a dyer, from his stained hands, and he clearly looks harried. The clever placement of the cow's horns identify him as a cuckold, and one wonders which of the children are actually his. The daughter and the son mirror this unhealthy relationship, as she angrily demands his gingerbread man. The placement of the cane is surely not an accident. Those in the pub are hardly escaping the heat by producing clouds of smoke from their clay pipes. 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Evening (painting, 1736) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Evening (engraving, 1738) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day 2

Refined Huguenots leave their church service, the old somber and the young carefree, in stark contrasts to the rough inhabitants of the slum. A dead cat lies between them. A man gropes a woman's breast, and the spilling from her pie dish perhaps reflects the precarious state of her character. A boy cries after breaking his plate, and a girl eats the pie from the ground. In the window of the shop, with a sign of "Good Eating" and the image of the head of St. John the Baptist, a couple argue, as she drops her leg of mutton into the street. 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Noon (painting, 1736) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Noon (engraving, 1738) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day 1

This series is more light-hearted and humorous, without the grave moralizing of many other works by Hogarth, and so it was, oddly enough, not nearly as popular. 

A lady on her way to church is shocked by the sight of bawdy men groping the market girls. Children dawdle before going to school. Revelers have been up all night in the coffee house, and are now fighting. In the print, Father Time stands over the clock, with the inscription of Sic transit gloria mundi. 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Morning (painting, 1736) 

William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Morning (engraving, 1738) 

William Hogarth, Before and After

On one level, of course, these scenes are comical, and yet, as with so much of Hogarth's work, they are also biting social satire and a grave moral warning. 

I tend to avoid any public assertions on matters of sex, not because I am prudish, but because I find that very few people are willing to honestly reflect on the role of desire in nature—the discussion inevitably degrades into rage or ridicule. I will only say that too many of our troubles come from the confusion between lust and love; a mind and a will overwhelmed by appetites, of any sort, are dangerous things.  

The facial expressions in all three version are priceless, and can tell us far more about the peculiar weaknesses of both men and women than any scholarly essay. 

In the prints, I am especially taken by the details of the books in the drawer, a text on piety in front of a trashy novel, and the two paintings on the wall of a cherub with a rocket. The dog is yipping in one scene, and sleeping in the next, while another book on the floor proclaims "every animal is sad after sex." 

William Hogarth, Before and After (first painted version, 1731) 

William Hogarth, Before and After (second painted version, 1731) 

William Hogarth, Before and After (engraving, 1736)