The head of Louis XIV

The head of Louis XIV

The other day—it was during a Friday late-night opening again—I was crossing at a fairly brisk pace, as usual, the impressive Salle Louis XIV, with its heavy armchairs and sofas, its chests of drawers and bookcases, its tapestries and pedestals (Sully, room 602). This isn’t a room in which I am overjoyed to linger. However, a certain light stopped me in my tracks as I looked up at Hyacinthe Rigaud’s immense portrait of Louis XIV, majestic, solemn, grand, hieratic, imposing (it is well worth five adjectives). The lighting suddenly made the head detach itself from the body and shine differently from the rest of the painting. I stood amazed. Then I remembered that, not so long ago, in a lecture and book, I had commented upon this same Rigaud’s portrait of the Abbé de Rancé, in which the painter, after a clandestine visit to La Trappe Abbey, had drawn the face from memory and inserted it into the canvas composed independently. It seems Rigaud made a habit of this. Louis XIV posed for his face, which was then mounted on the vast canvas with the fleur-de-lys-adorned throne, the royal mantle, the sword of Charlemagne, and all the symbols of power, including the final touch of a large wig, and, at a certain angle, the collage is visible––or really at all angles, once you know.