confident
authority. In part, Peale was merely doing what was asked of him, since the resolution that led him to make the painting specified
that its purpose was to “perpetuate the memory . . . [of] how much the liberty, safety and happiness of America in general
and Pennsylvania in particular is owing to His Excellency General Washington.” 29
The work would also be the making, once and for all, of Charles Willson Peale, Painter. He had gotten the important public
commission, of course, but another reason the painting proved to be a show-off moment was that the artist himself had witnessed
the battle. Copies of the painting would enable denizens of the Old World to see not only what Washington had done but also
what Peale could do. In 1776, the artist had sold a few replicas of the Washington Portrait he painted for Hancock, but in
1779 orders poured in for canvases of Washington at Princeton. French ambassador Gérard purchased one for presentation to
Louis XVI, and five copies were ordered to go to the Spanish court. The American envoy bound for Holland took a copy with
him. Peale painted at least eighteen replicas, along with a number of three-quarter-length variations. 30 This was Washington, icon of America, suitable for diplomatic use, and to the eighteenth-century Eu rope an, Peale’s image
of “His Excellency” portrayed not an upstart revolutionary but the undisputed leader of the new American republic.
The multiple commissions could hardly have come along at a better moment. Peale continued to need money to feed his growing
family (Angelica and Raphaelle had been joined by another son, Rembrandt, barely a year old). Charles Willson sent one copy
of the big painting on consignment to Spain, entrusting it to William Carmichael, the new chargé d’affaires for the American
legation. Carmichael sailed across the Atlantic on the frigate Aurore in October 1779, carrying a letter from Peale. “I have directed a long packing case for you which contains a whole length
of Gen. Washington,” Peale had written, “begging your favor in putting it into the hands of some person who will sell it on
commission.” 31 The artist had hoped it would sell quickly “as I am in want of necessaries for painting, and clothing my family.” 32 Even when business seemed to be booming, Peale collected no windfall profits; his living was still a portrait-by-portrait
affair.
One reason for the international appeal of the painting was Peale’s use of what he had learned in London. In his influential Discourses , Sir Joshua Reynolds, the president of the Royal Academy, had declared there was no need “to be confined to mere matter[s]
of fact”; rather, a painter ought to aim for the classical ideal of perfecting nature. When working in what Reynolds liked
to call the “Grand Manner,” the artist aimed to represent the nobility and seriousness of human action, as Raphael had done
in the sixteenth century and Poussin in the seventeenth. Although the faces of the figures might seem strangely impassive,
the artist looked to express in his composition what Johann Joachim Winck-elmann, a contemporary who busied himself inventing
the discipline of archaeology, termed “noble simplicity” and “calm grandeur.” 33
Peale employed some of the conventions of history painting, which his old master Benjamin West had only recently reinvented
when he painted a scene from the French and Indian War in contemporary dress. The tradition held that classical costume—such
as the toga in which Peale had dressed his William Pitt—brought order and logic to the conception. As a result, the London
painting establishment had been shocked at the unveiling in April 1771 of West’s The Death of General Wolfe , in which General Wolfe was portrayed in his own British uniform, a brilliant crimson in color, at the Battle of Quebec.
Wolfe’s prone figure was surrounded by officers at the center of the
authority. In part, Peale was merely doing what was asked of him, since the resolution that led him to make the painting specified
that its purpose was to “perpetuate the memory . . . [of] how much the liberty, safety and happiness of America in general
and Pennsylvania in particular is owing to His Excellency General Washington.” 29
The work would also be the making, once and for all, of Charles Willson Peale, Painter. He had gotten the important public
commission, of course, but another reason the painting proved to be a show-off moment was that the artist himself had witnessed
the battle. Copies of the painting would enable denizens of the Old World to see not only what Washington had done but also
what Peale could do. In 1776, the artist had sold a few replicas of the Washington Portrait he painted for Hancock, but in
1779 orders poured in for canvases of Washington at Princeton. French ambassador Gérard purchased one for presentation to
Louis XVI, and five copies were ordered to go to the Spanish court. The American envoy bound for Holland took a copy with
him. Peale painted at least eighteen replicas, along with a number of three-quarter-length variations. 30 This was Washington, icon of America, suitable for diplomatic use, and to the eighteenth-century Eu rope an, Peale’s image
of “His Excellency” portrayed not an upstart revolutionary but the undisputed leader of the new American republic.
The multiple commissions could hardly have come along at a better moment. Peale continued to need money to feed his growing
family (Angelica and Raphaelle had been joined by another son, Rembrandt, barely a year old). Charles Willson sent one copy
of the big painting on consignment to Spain, entrusting it to William Carmichael, the new chargé d’affaires for the American
legation. Carmichael sailed across the Atlantic on the frigate Aurore in October 1779, carrying a letter from Peale. “I have directed a long packing case for you which contains a whole length
of Gen. Washington,” Peale had written, “begging your favor in putting it into the hands of some person who will sell it on
commission.” 31 The artist had hoped it would sell quickly “as I am in want of necessaries for painting, and clothing my family.” 32 Even when business seemed to be booming, Peale collected no windfall profits; his living was still a portrait-by-portrait
affair.
One reason for the international appeal of the painting was Peale’s use of what he had learned in London. In his influential Discourses , Sir Joshua Reynolds, the president of the Royal Academy, had declared there was no need “to be confined to mere matter[s]
of fact”; rather, a painter ought to aim for the classical ideal of perfecting nature. When working in what Reynolds liked
to call the “Grand Manner,” the artist aimed to represent the nobility and seriousness of human action, as Raphael had done
in the sixteenth century and Poussin in the seventeenth. Although the faces of the figures might seem strangely impassive,
the artist looked to express in his composition what Johann Joachim Winck-elmann, a contemporary who busied himself inventing
the discipline of archaeology, termed “noble simplicity” and “calm grandeur.” 33
Peale employed some of the conventions of history painting, which his old master Benjamin West had only recently reinvented
when he painted a scene from the French and Indian War in contemporary dress. The tradition held that classical costume—such
as the toga in which Peale had dressed his William Pitt—brought order and logic to the conception. As a result, the London
painting establishment had been shocked at the unveiling in April 1771 of West’s The Death of General Wolfe , in which General Wolfe was portrayed in his own British uniform, a brilliant crimson in color, at the Battle of Quebec.
Wolfe’s prone figure was surrounded by officers at the center of the
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