In the context of the visual arts, the notion of misunderstood genius is a comparatively recent one, and seems to be a by-product of Romanticism. In spite of such exceptions as Vermeer, whose current reputation stands so much higher than it did in his own day, in the main the Old Master canon remains startlingly unchanging. This state of affairs begins to change in the 19th century, and one unhappy consequence of what might be termed the Van Gogh syndrome is that we are now inclined to view artists who were outrageously successful in their own day with downright suspicion.
Sir Thomas Lawrence is surely as good a case in point as one could hope to find of this topsy-turvy prejudice. Having garnered every conceivable glittering prize throughout his life, as he progressed from infant phenomenon — the earliest drawings illustrated in Sir Michael Levey’s eloquent and impassioned new monograph were done when he was ten, and torn between a future with the brush or on the stage — to recording angel of the great and the good and President of the Royal Academy, he was ripe for a post- humous fall.
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