The Portrait of the Honorable Richard Henry Cardwell Taylor,
Judge, Virginia
15th Judicial Circuit
by James Ward Elliott, Esq.
A portrait is so much more than a likeness. I have slowly learned this
travelling with my wife on commissioned work. Being a member of the legal
profession, I tend to view things from a practical point of view. Working in the
corporate world I tend also to view things from a relatively short term
perspective. It has taken years of marriage to an artist to train me how to
change perspectives when we set off on a journey involving her work.
Art is not a product; it is a process. If successful, it is a process that
transcends the process and becomes the timeless embodiment of both a subject and
the process (the ethereal).
This journey takes us to the historical community of Hanover, Virginia. It
was in a small courthouse in Hanover that Patrick Henry argued cases near the
time of the birth of our nation. That courthouse is why we have come, but I do
not know this yet.
All I know is this is a portrait of a judge, a retiring judge. I assume the
portrait will be hung in the courthouse where he served or in a community
building. In a sense I am right. But I am to be reminded that a portrait is far
more than a likeness- if successful it embodies the essence of the person. This
is how portraiture transcends photography and captures the spirit.
At the judge’s home we are treated to a southern welcome. Conversation is
exchanged and thereby the layers of life peeled back to reveal the inner self.
This is essential to the process, but I do not yet understand this.
Before the sketching begins, before the photos are taken, we are
invited, no, asked, to visit the courthouse built in 1735. The floors are
hardwood and worn with two and a half centuries of debate and controversy. No,
the speech in which Patrick Henry said: "Give me liberty or give me
death" was not given here, but clearly those thoughts were formed here. The
bricks of the foundation of our democracy were formed from the clay of youthful
ideas, fired with the experience of age, transported to a suitable location, and
carefully laid in place with the mortar of wisdom that only exigency can create.
We are asked to view the artwork that adorns the
courthouse; these are portraits of those who practiced in this court. Among these
paintings are portraits of Henry Clay and Patrick Henry. A portrait of Richard
Henry Cardwell, President of the Supreme Court of Virginia in the late 19th
century, hangs near the judge’s bench. "He was my great grandfather"
says Judge Taylor in a low voice. As an attorney I suddenly realize this journey
is more complex than I had anticipated. "And here is my great, great, great
uncle Judge Samuel Cornelius Redd." There are also portraits of an uncle,
great uncle and another great grandfather, all of whom were Clerks of this
court. "Here is the portrait of my predecessor; he was the last
presiding judge in this courthouse before we had to build the new, more modern
courthouse nearby where I presided."
We walk from the humble courthouse of his ancestors to
the modern courthouse where Judge Taylor has presided for many years. We discuss
the location outside the courtroom where the portrait will hang. Then he reveals
with pride the courtroom which he helped design: a courtroom with elements of
"in the round", where the jury cannot be easily distracted from its
duty either by visitors or representing attorneys. He also speaks with pride
about a special room where disruptive defendants could be placed and still
observe their trials; he speaks with even greater pride about never having to
have had to use this feature. We are invited to chambers where most people never
go. Legal briefs lie scattered about- this is a man whose experiences have taught that
justice is far more complex than legal verbosity. Ours is a brief but compelling
window’s view of a life’s work.
Upon return to his home the work begins. A decision must be made as to which
tie to wear. Clearly he must wear his robe. The heirloom watch dating to the
great grandfather must be included. Judge Taylor sits patiently conversing with
the artist while the artist works. (I suppose judges are better than most
subjects because they have been taught to sit so patiently.)
At a break the judge invites me to view some family mementos. Among these is
a silhouette of Justice John Marshall, one of the first Chief Justices of the
U.S. Supreme Court, (who set certain precedents, regarding how our federalist
system of government works, which remain unaltered to this day). "He was my
great, great, great (too many to count)... uncle, you know." In another context this might be name
dropping, but clearly it is not so here. Judge Taylor is an unassuming man, a
man who appears to bear this ancestry as one would a great weight. He stands in
awe of this history as much as do I. But unlike me, he understands that behind
the façade of the robe must be a man or woman who, more than anything else, is
human, fallible, compassionate and endowed with common sense.
Coffee is served to the relief of all. A small oil is completed. After I pack
the car, the artist retreats to allow this experience to ferment.
Weeks later we return again. The artist is now more focused. After a lunch
at which the judge sheds tears while saying Grace, the work begins. The coffee
is served earlier and continuously. The artist works as diligently as any lawyer
preparing a brief.
The medium is not words, but color and light. How can one capture with these
simple tools the dignity of a human being? Whether a portrait of a homeless
person, or a portrait of a great leader, how can these tools ever be enough?
What else has the artist to work with?
These are the questions that only an artist can answer. The answer cannot be
expressed in words and it cannot be taught, though it may be learned. In the
same sense that Jesus is said to have perspired blood in the garden of
Gethsemane, so, too, must the artist call upon the essence of his or her being
to bring forth pigments that do not exist in the tangible. Without these tools,
there is no portrait- at best there is only a likeness.
Again a small oil is prepared. The car packed, and the drive home: quiet. A
storm is coming, but we do not know that, yet.
. . . .
. . . .
One’s life’s work is performed in the midst of the hurricane that is
life: there are dreams and disappointments; love and quarrels; joy and sorrow,
health, sickness and ultimately death. The season fades while the storms of fall
blow ashore, one after another. The leaves turn intense colors, then are taken
by the wind, spirited away and are forgotten. Each storm reduces the splendor of
summer, of our lives, to its barest essence. The landscape of sky and earth
grows more barren each day.
In the midst of this hurricane stands the artist armed only with a peculiar
faith (faith that these tools would ever be enough: against time, against the
elements, against human imperfection). The work goes on- in layers. Layer by
layer a life is assembled. The eyes sparkle first. The features evolve. Then the
dark hues creep in from all sides and devour the canvas. The storms wash away
all but that which is essential- all else is irrelevant. While earth and sky,
family and soul are battered by the storm surge, the work of life goes on. Only
when the artist has given all there is and a little more, does the storm end.
Then, all is finally quiet.
. . . .
. . . .
The Judge and Mrs. Taylor arrive to view the product. There is no hurry now.
What’s done is done. Other paintings that hang about the house are discussed.
Lunch is served and the conversation friendly. At last it is time.
This moment belongs to the subject, alone . Perhaps the most mystified that the
portrait should be created, the subject is the most vulnerable. Tears well up in
the Judge’s eyes. Perhaps he sees his father in his mind’s eye and asks
forgiveness for some past sin. Perhaps he sees the jury of his forefathers
standing in judgment over his life’s work. We will never know- and we should
not. All that matters is that justice has been done.
A portrait of Judge Taylor is ready for those who will remember, and more
importantly, for those who will only know him this way.
©Copyright 1999, James Ward Elliott
Note from the artist: It is with great sadness
that I report that Judge Taylor passed away on August 13, 2002. For more
information on his life, please click
here.
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