"I may know nothing about art..."

Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents
1. 'I may know nothing about art..." a fine portrait of the Uncle of Europe, Edward VII, by Heinrich
von Angeli, 1840-1925, the best connected artist in the world.
2. Charles VII, Holy Roman Emperor 1742-1745. A must-have imperial image found by a
connoisseur, restored by a master, shared with you in its full majesty.
3. 'A boy! A boy! My kingdom for a boy!' On Holy Roman Emperor Charles VI, his dilemma, and
an over-the-top picture of eye-popping grandeur and allegory.


'I may know nothing about art..." a fine portrait of the Uncle
of Europe, Edward VII, by Heinrich von Angeli, 1840-1925,
the best connected artist in the world.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. One day in 1901 at the beginning of his long-deferred reign, the new and
enthusiastic 60-year-old sovereign Edward VII by the Grace of God king, emperor, ruler of plum
properties everywhere on Earth, was surveying his picture collection at Buckingham Palace (itself
worth a king's ransom) along with Frederick "Fritz" Ponsonby, later Lord Sysonby (1867-1935).
Fritz was one of those most useful of beings; a man who had grown up in a courtly family; his father
was Sir Henry Ponsonby, Queen Victoria's long-time private secretary. He was a courtier to his
finger tips, knowing all the ins and outs and where all the bodies were buried. Such a man was
expected to be available at the monarch's slightest command, know everything, say nothing... and do
it all for a pittance. Oh, yes, such people were useful indeed.
On this particular day, the new king and young Fritz were surveying the picture galleries which still
had the dour mark of Queen Victoria on them. This meant the greatest masterpieces of the greatest
European masters cheek by jowl, higgledy-piggledy with daubs in water color by minor princesses
of minor German states. ("Dear Maria had no talent, poor thing.")
There was no order to it, just one thing on top of another. Edward VII, a man who understood his
craft, his metier of kingship, was appalled but not dismayed. He had waited a lifetime for this
moment, and he told Ponsonby, standing by with notebook in hand, "I may know nothing about
arrrrrrrt," he intoned in his idiosyncratic mixture of English and guttural German. "But I think I
know something about arrrrrrangement."
And so he did... in art, in music, in life. Thus, to accompany this article I have selected the "Enigma
Variations" by Sir Edward Elgar (1857-1934). Find them now in any search engine. They were
composed in 1898-1899, just in time for the lush richness of England and her empire at their peak in
the reign of a man who knew every nuance of being a king, including which artists should be
allowed to paint him and so provide the desired look for all time.
One of the most favored of these artists was Heinrich (later Baron) von Angeli, persona gratissima
at all the Courts of Europe, not merely talented, but arguably the best connected painter of his day.
How had this happened?
Favored by an unhappy princess.
Prince Albert, Queen Victoria's beautiful and obsessively loved husband, fathered 9 children, of
whom two were of major political significance: Princess Victoria, Princess Royal (1840-1901) and
Prince Edward, Prince of Wales (1841- 1910). She was married far too young (just 17 years old) to
Prince Frederick of Prussia, Crown Prince (1831-1888). It was a love match fervently desired by her
parents, who saw thereby a means to expedite German unification and hence create a liberal,
progressive nation under a constitutional monarchy, a highly desirable solution to the thorny
"German problem" to the benefit of all Europe.
It was, on paper, a brilliant plan... except for one thing: neither Fritz's father, King (later Emperor)
William of Prussia (1797-1888) or his chief henchman Otto (later Prince) von Bismarck
(1815-1898) wanted what those meddling Englanders wanted... quite the reverse, "blood and iron"
being more their cup of tea. And so young, idealistic, home-sick Princess Victoria, now Crown
Princess of Prussia, went to her fate... to be ridiculed, derided, humiliated and isolated by Bismarck,

http://www.LizsWorldprofit.com Copyright Elizabeth English - 2012 4 of 13


past master in the art of exquisite torments.
She became the most unhappy princess on Earth, for all that she had the man of her dreams as her
wedded husband. She needed a friend and here at least the fates were kind, for she got as her
painting tutor just the right man, Heinrich von Angeli. His visits lessoned the burdens of her royal
life. He made her smile and this skill, linked to undeniable talent, made von Angeli and his meteoric
career.
Mirror, not just painter.
He saw the princes of Europe as they wanted to be seen, picturing them as larger than life, bold,
audacious, people of vision and destiny. And on this basis he networked his way through the
interconnected dynasties which constituted the acme of Europe in this last, greatest age of
monarchy.
Paint box in hand, he trod the corridors of undeniable power, great pictures always the result of his
visits... pictures of his loyal patron the Crown Princess of Prussia, her husband the Crown Prince....
Queen Victoria (to whom in 1877 he presented his own most attractive self portrait)... Austrian
Emperor Franz Josef... and, of course, Prince Edward, The Prince of Wales. It is the study for this
magnificent portrait of 1890 that you see above, the dirty, distressed, undistinguished "before"
image... and then, as if painted today, the splendid "after", a prince indeed.
For if von Angeli had been fortunate in his patron, so, too, both he and his image of the man who
became Edward VII were equally fortunate in the conservator who brought this woebegone picture
back from the brink, saving it for grateful generations yet to come. This gifted conservator is Simon
Gillespie of Cleveland Street, London, an expert adept at saving portraits of royalty... and every
other kind of person or scene. I know. He has worked his undeniable magic on over three dozen such
pictures for me, this being the latest.
"Kaiserhaus und Historika" sale, Dorotheum, Lot 260, 8 May, 2012.
This picture was placed for auction at the very end of a long day when I had had almost no luck,
until I acquired Lot 256, a superb signed photograph of the Prince of Wales' brother-in-law, Emperor
Frederick III photographed as Crown Prince of Germany. I owed its "steal" price to the fact that the
auction was nearly over, most folks already gone. My spirits upbeat from this pip of an acquisition,
I awaited the signed and 1890 dated portrait of Edward of Wales with equanimity. In the event, its
unappealing condition linked to a much diminished audience carried the day. It was mine, and at a
very attractive price. All it needed now was Simon Gillespie.
Simon's review.
Simon's work demands utter and complete honesty and integrity. This is essential, and here with this
distressed artifact he gave full measure. Upon delivery from Vienna, he emailed a full report of its
disfigurements and discolorations. Most of the background, which is now a light gray and for its
time a modern conceit, had been glazed over with a brown paint. Further to this, the last treatment it
had received had included painting out broad brush strokes around the head in an attempt to "tidy
up" and make presentable the regal image.
Gillespie never commits such solecisms... for his credo is to return venerable objects to their pristine
state... conserving, not inventing. He is the painter's latter-day incarnation, as true to the painter's
original intention as possible... and his intentions in this work were clear: to make an energetic
sketch, to render the bravura techniques and prowess of his middle age, to capture the good
personality of the sitter. The artist succeeded in his objective because Simon Gillespie, master,
succeeded in his.



There is only one question left. Did this splendid study lead to one of Angeli's royal masterpieces? It
constitutes the perfect query for my older age. Therefore I am not chagrined to have found no
answer yet. For now it is enough that this engaging sketch has survived and faces its future with a
mixture of royal pride and affability, the attributes of the sitter, captured by von Angeli, saved by
Gillespie and now, chez moi, an object of grandeur and appeal, truly fit for a king, perfectly
positioned for maximum effect... for I know something about arrrrrrangement, too.



Charles VII, Holy Roman Emperor 1742-1745. A must-have
imperial image found by a connoisseur, restored by a
master, shared with you in its full majesty.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. You are about to be taken inside a world of finesse, exquisite manners, bon
ton, a world where la douceur de la vie was perfected in every particular and where every moment
away was quite simply unbearable. I am talking, of course, of eighteenth century Europe and more
precisely of its monarchs and the aristocracy that provided the rapt audience for majesty's every
move. As Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord said, "Those who had not known the Ancien régime
would never be able to know how sweet life had been", and he was most assuredly in a position to
know.
So while we cannot reconstruct this moment of heaven on Earth, we can at least revive a moment of
its essence, rather like the fine perfume that lingers on a packet of love letters and so evokes the
whole in an instant of rich remembrance. That is why I advise you to play Jean-Philippe Rameau
(1683-1764) before continuing with this article. Yes, Rameau whose sophisticated notes wafted
from the salons of Versailles to all the chateaux of Europe, the music for love affaires without end.
Listen to La Orquesta de Luis XV Concierto de Jordi Savall. You will easily find it any search
engine, and you will soon savor it, especially if there is a drop of blue blood in your veins, as you
have always surmised... and hoped.
An emperor dies, a cornucopia of possibilities.
This chapter of our story begins with a death; but not just any death; the death of God's vicegerent on
Earth, Charles VI, ruler of the conglomerate that was neither (according to Voltaire) Holy... nor
Roman... nor an Empire. He was a man with a problem; a problem he died (1740) believing he had
solved. He had sired only daughters (two) but according to the rules of succession, these daughters
could not rule; only sons might... and there were no imperial sons to be had. Charles kept trying to
remedy the deficiency, but could not. He then decided that the rules could be changed, if he bribed
his fellow monarchs sufficiently.
He called his solution the Pragmatic Sanction... and it cost him a pretty penny. What's more, the
minute he died, the princes of Europe (particularly Frederick II of Prussia) abjured their oaths... each
believing they could get more through outright theft, an art perfected by sovereigns thereafter called
"Great", like Frederick. And so war with all its delicious possibilities came again to Europe, this
particular dust-up called "The War of the Austrian Succession" (1740-1748).
Of the many kings and princes involved (including Maria Theresa, the archducal beneficiary of the
Pragmatic Sanction), only one need detain us here, Charles Albert, Prince-elector of Bavaria from
1726. He was the candidate Louis XV of France selected to break the Habsburgs unbreakable hold
on the imperial title and emoluments. It seemed like a fine idea when raised... and so enough electors
were bribed to make him "Charles VII, by the grace of God elected Holy Roman Emperor, forever
August, King in Germany and of Bohemia, Duke in...etc., etc." How could mere mortal turn it all
down?
Thus was Europe divided into the Habsburg party and those who saw more spoils by adhering to the
only non-Habsburg emperor since the 15th century, Charles VII Albert of the giddy House of
Wittelsbach, cock-a-hoop, but not for long.
"Uneasy lies the head..."



Soon enough Charles Albert had reason to regret. His imperial coronation on 12 February 1742 was
followed by his Austrian adversaries overrunning his home territories and Munich his capital. He
had an imperial title but no substance whatsoever. Deriding wags mocked him, "et Caesar et nihil,"
meaning "as well Emperor, as nothing." Just a year later,1743, this impecunious, hapless princeling
died, of gout, obese, despairing. And so he returned to Munich in a super sized coffin, a failure, an
embarrassment, a man best forgotten, not painted.
Bildnis des Kurfursten Karl Albrecht von Bayern, Jan Kupetzky (Bosing/Pressburg 1667- 1740
Nurnberg), zugeschrieben, Ol auf Leinwand, 92 x 74,3 cm.
I am a close reader of "Alte Meister" ("Old Master") catalogs produced by the Austrian auction
house Dorotheum (founded in 1707). I open these catalogs with a mixture of dread and white-hot
enthusiasm; afraid of what I'll find that will crush my every good intention to "budget" and "save"...
painstaking in reviewing every page. The portrait of the Emperor Carl VII Albert, Lot 8, 11 June,
2012 was tailer-made to catch my eye. It was love at first sight; I could only hope that my long-time
conservator Simon Gillespie would find the irremediable flaws that would save my money and
negate any thought of purchase. Otherwise I was well and truly doomed, since I am an assiduous
collector of Austrian imperial pictures and this one was rare indeed; no wonder, given the fact that
the subject had other things to do than sit for his portrait during his brief reign so filled with woe and
catastrophe. I awaited Simon's report with impatience.
Dull to look at, layers of dirt and discolored varnishes, what the trained eye sees, what it means.
If you mean to collect good art, particularly good art down on its luck, dirty, damaged, desolate, you
need an eye that sees not only what is but what was and what can be. This is the masterful, deep
seeing eye Simon Gillespie, wizard of Cleveland Street London, has developed over decades and
which I, mere acolyte, have spent many years improving. The entire business is predicated on what
the master's eye sees and what his deft hand must then effect to return the disconsolate image to the
radiance its artist intended.
This is all easily said but needs the study and experience of a lifetime to render. I invariably retain
Simon Gillespie because he remains constant in his objective; to restore, not to invent; to go where
the artist went but no further, and so return to life in its pristine form each work he touches with his
nimble fingers, the fingers it has taken a lifetime to train and execute their crucial work.
Simon's report.
Given the dull appearance of this picture, its layers of disfiguring dirt and degraded varnishes,
writing it off might have made perfect sense, especially given a plethora of other problems,
including a plain and ordinary wooden frame. There was absolutely nothing imperial about it. But
here is where Gillespie's masterful eye came into play, for beneath every dismal aspect there was
quality, the quality imparted by its creator, Jan Kupetzky (1667-1740).
Kupetzky's talent manifested itself early and to the right people. Just 20 years old, after studying with
the Swiss painter Benedikt Klaus, Kupetzky went on an extended Italian study trip. In Rome, Prince
Aleksander Benedykt Sobieski, the son of Polish King John III Sobieski, helped him become
famous... and so for the rest of his long life he was. This fame got him the plum commissions; the
striking pictures that resulted got him more; Prince Eugene of Savoy, aristocrats needing a careful
touch with their eternal images, even Russian Tsar Peter I and his hapless heir, Tsarevich Alexei
Petrovich. Influenced by Caravaggio and Rembrandt he painted splendid pictures of himself, his
family, friends. He was a master and used his great gifts to great effect. In due course, with assiduity
and brilliance he became the most significant German portrait painter of his day; just the man
Charles VII Albert required to portray him as he wished to be, very definitely not as he was.



Gillespie looked deep and saw enough evidence of masterful Kupetzky to justify proceeding to the
next level. And on this basis I acquired the work at auction for the low estimate; I believe I was the
only bidder. That's how little appeal this picture then possessed and how nearly a very different fate
had been avoided.
Ah, but look at it now... its splendor enhanced by the best carver and gilder in London who
replicated an original frame design and delivered the high tone of gilding as would have been at the
time. And so the saddest Holy Roman Emperor, the man who gambled all and lost all, sails forth
into perpetuity looking exactly like a king should look, signed by Kupetzky, conserved by Gillespie,
hung here in Cambridge for me.



'A boy! A boy! My kingdom for a boy!' On Holy Roman
Emperor Charles VI, his dilemma, and an over-the-top
picture of eye-popping grandeur and allegory.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's Program Note. No royal court in Europe was more musically inclined than the imperial
Habsburgs who ruled their vast real estate from the most melodious of capitals, Wien. Or as you
would say, Vienna. To be a prince of this dynasty (called archdukes) was an honorable thing of
course, a matter of dignity and respect.
But to be an emperor or even an archduke who was an accomplished musician was marvelous... and
when this valued being composed, too, why this was very heaven and deserving of every paean and
veneration. For the Habsburgs were the most fortunate of princes; to rule over a people as
cosmopolitan and sophisticated as they were, with taste refined, pure, cultivated to the highest
degree.
Their subjects realized such accomplished and refined princes were rare, and so gave them a fidelity
less humane sovereigns could only envy but never emulate. As it turned out the last male ruler in his
line was the Emperor Charles VI (1685-1740). Today I tell his story... and unveil one of the most
magnificent pictures of his reign... the great day he, God's vicegerant on Earth, was crowned King of
Bohemia, September 5, 1723.
For such an occasion, for such a man music, great music is required and what better than a brave
little piece written by Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I, two of whose musically inclined sons
(Joseph I and Charles VI) became emperors, too. This piece is called "Lasset Ihr Stemen", and you'll
find it in any search engine. Go now. You'll need to practice your courtly leaps and gambols; the
music will provide the necessary clues about just when to jump and with what elasticity and
exquisite precision...
The problem, the tragedy of Charles VI's life.
Charles VI was a man of taste, an aesthete, a connoisseur. He was also a prince of the first
magnitude; a necessary cog in the complicated wheel of European statecraft. At the time his
childless cousin of Spain, Charles II, lay a long time dying Archduke Charles was not the next heir
to Austria's empire. That was his older brother Joseph I.
But to the inconvenience of all, Joseph died, thus making his archducal brother Holy Roman
Emperor and, due to the carefully contrived marriages of his canny predecessors, plausible heir to
even greater lands, specifically those of Spain where his sickly cousin Charles II still lingered, a man
whose only remaining importance was his much desired death... and who would get the glittering
inheritance, about one sixth of the globe.
Two princes claimed the riches of the dons; Philip of Anjou, the French candidate; and the man now
called Emperor Charles VI. Should Spanish King Charles select his imperial cousin, the great empire
of Charles V would be revived, to the unmitigated detriment of both England and France. That, the
disadvantaged all agreed, would never do.
And so King Louis XIV of France reluctantly allowed Philip of Anjou to accept the throne of Spain
(as Philip III) and so began the draining, interminable War of the Spanish Succession. From
Austria's standpoint it was not a "good" war. Along the way, their shrewd ally England, recreating
their immemorial role as "Perfidious Albion", deserted the imperial cause thus allowing Philip III to
stay on the Spanish throne. The condition was that the crowns of Spain and France must never be



linked.
The bone tossed to Charles VI was a goodly part of the Netherlands. For all that he didn't triumph,
France, victor, came out worse; desolate, bankrupt, exhausted. Such was the price of victory and the
monarchical structure of Europe. Things got better for Imperial Charles, and worse.
The real estate agents called Habsburg did what they always did: added properties, traded properties,
bargained properties, married properties, ventured properties, lost properties. They were Europe's
realtors, and they consistently got more than they gave up; garnering the crown of Bohemia in 1711;
that of restless Hungary in 1712; trading Spain in 1738 Sicily and Naples for the gracious duchies of
Parma and Piacenza.
This is what being a Habsburg meant and Charles VI played the great game as well as any of his
imperial brethren. But he had to finesse his one glaring problem, the succession; the first task of a
dynast. Charles produced two daughters but a brigade of such princesses was not the equal of a
single prince. He needed that prince and a spare, and his need was urgent.
Thus the head of House Habsburg, the very model of monarchical tradition, canvassed a radical
solution to the matter; a solution that would keep the succession to his own kin, never mind they
were female, and so avoid another of Europe's debilitating wars of succession. It was called the
Pragmatic Sanction and, bribe by bribe, concession by lucrative concession, the princes of Europe
came on board with pledges of adherence hardly one had any intention of actually keeping. It was all
part of the scheming that was sovereignty. Duplicity was the true droit de seigneur.
Revolutionary, unprecedented solution; ultra traditional presentation.
The Pragmatic Sanction was finalized in 1713. It was crucial to disguise just how unprecedented it
was. And that's where Johann George Bohm (1673-1746) and his exuberant, signed and imperially
commissioned "Allegory of the Coronation of Emperor Charles VI as King of Bohemia in Prague on
5th September 1723" comes in.
It may well be the most significant and is certainly the most glorious representation of monarchical
legitimacy ever painted, bold in its objective, audacious in its purpose, a picture offering the
strongest possible support to the legitimist principle and its current representative and champion,
Charles VI by the Grace of God...
An allegory, a declaration, an assertion, a conviction, a proof.
Every picture contains a message, but in few pictures is that message as abundantly clear, striking,
fierce and even bombastic as this one, which seeks, indeed demands, nothing less than your total
belief in and submission to the unquestioned doctrine that this man and his dynasty are the favored
and elect of God. It goes about elucidating this fact in the following way: by picturing the
Coronation in Prague as grand theater, operatic, uplifting, inspiring, an event of grace and
apotheosis.
Thus, the work offers a plethora of signs, symbols, and images, each with its individual task of
supporting and hammering home the essential message: that the Emperor specifically and the entire
dynasty generally are of God, ordained by God, sustained by God, forever and ever and that
submission to these God-sanctified Habsburgs is mandatory, unalterable, eternal. Amen.
Let us take a closer look at the symbolic richness of this picture where each item and every
representation is there to carry the overriding message and in as many ways remind the viewer that
here is perpetual truth, no cavil or reservation of any kind permitted.
And so we see the sovereigns, Charles VI and his consort Elisabeth Christine of



Braunschweig-Wolfenbuttel under a soaring cloth of state, the double headed eagle picked out in
gold and their imperial monograms. The imperial couple are surrounded by personifications of the
virtues intended to characterize the reign of the new Bohemian king. Amongst them Charity,
represented with the arms of the city of Prague, their new kingdom's capital. Pheme floats above this
group with the trumpet of fame. In the right foreground Chronos, father of Zeus, God of time, pulls
back the curtain of history which cannot but bless this king, his dynasty, his reign which can only be
happy ordained as it is by God Himself and His (Roman Catholic) church.
Now the question must be answered: who painted this magnificent declaration, this encyclical of
color and splendor? Bohm. Johann George Bohm, Master, a man who knew his craft; the art of
presenting royalty exactly as it wished to be seen by itself and all lesser folk. As such Bohm was
welcomed wherever fastidious royalty needed his essential talent, amongst them the Courts of
Saxony and Poland.
Lot 620, "Alte Meister", Dorotheum, 18 April, 2012.
It would be wrong to say it was love at first sight; rather it was lust, desire, and anxiety. It was
something so perfect for my collection it might have been commissioned by me. As such it threw all
my good resolutions about thrift, planning and self-control right out the window. I could only hope
my valued conservator of over 3 dozen pictures would find flaws so grave even his genius would not
suffice. But this is the magic of Simon Gillespie, Cleveland Street, London. If the picture can be
restored to its pristine allure, then his triumph and the picture's future are assured even for objects as
badly off as this daunting masterpiece, a skein of thousands of cracks, damages, imperfections, and
assorted troubles on an imperial scale.
Surely this time even Simon might quail. But he did not quail. And so the master who painted this
demanding masterpiece came to be admirably served by the master who saved the work from its
pitiful downward spiral of distress, desolation, and despair.
Thus Gillespie and team went to work with a will, investing over 600 hours of their practised
expertise, bringing the picture back one fraction of an inch after another, patience and a hand made
sable hair brush the crucial tools. By such pains the picture and its splendid original frame with the
Crown of Bohemia above all were restored, resplendent, a thing as proud as the sovereign who
commissioned the work, and far more successful than he.
For you see, the great work of his reign, ensuring that the empire complete and indivisible was
successfully passed to his daughter Archduchess Maria Theresa, crashed before his mortal remains
were even cool; royal marauders, all sworn to support the Pragmatic Sanction, broke their solemn
vows and grabbed what they could as fast as they could.
Now this picture, 117 x 89 cm, saved for the future, has come to its new home here in Cambridge,
where I, the son of Puritans, carefully protect not just this imperial work... but a room full of
Habsburgs, all in radiant condition. And so the present, in the persons of Simon Gillespie and me,
has kept faith with a past we value, particularly in its artful manifestations. We have here worked to
preserve; worked to maintain; and worked to secure... all tasks worth doing... all tasks done well.



Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business
training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting,
hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online
Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.
Republished with author's permission by Elizabeth English http://LizsWorldprofit.com.


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