Vermeer’s Women: Secrets and Silence, at the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

Though this compact and diverse exhibition focuses on its 17th century female subjects – their household tasks, diversions and moments of solitude – it is just as interesting as an exploration of the (exclusively male) viewpoint of the artist. Just four pieces by Vermeer are amply supported and contextualised by works by ter Borch, Jan Steen, Vrel and their contemporaries, and the artists’ relationship with their subjects varies from voyeurism to fraternal affection, empathy to curious scrutiny.

The paintings in this collection portray women at home, a ‘female space’ (to use a psycho-geographical term which I’d usually rather not) where women of varying social status prepare parnsips, gossip or perform their toilet. Yet we are never able to forget that we are seeing these scenes through the eyes of a male painter, and that our implied presence in the room often does not go unnoticed, implicitly rendering the (21st century) observer party to the exchange of glances between artist and subject.

Perhaps the most demonstrable, physical evidence of the painter’s presence is in Vermeer’s The Music Lesson (c.1662-3) in which a mirror on the back wall of the room reflects the face of the subject, a table in the foreground of the painting, and also a little of the artist’s easel. As such, Vermeer includes the painter as a ‘character’ present within the painting, just as his contemporaries signal their presence by including subjects who glance up, look over their shoulders or stare directly at us as we silently observe. In other works, the subjects remain unaware of (or undisturbed by) our presence, and here the artists draw attention to their own presence and aesthete’s eye through composition and texture. As such, we view rooms through carefully aligned proscenium arches, and in Vermeer’s famous work The Lacemaker (c.1670) the paint has been applied in such a way as to make the texture of the canvas beneath clearly visible.

As the audio-guide breathlessly points out, the subject in Jan Steen’s Woman at her Toilet (1663) comfortably meets the male gaze, unabashed at being caught in the midst of dressing, casually sliding her foot into a stocking. Meanwhile, the objects strewn across the threshold – a lute with one broken string, and a skull entwined with a vine – are symbols of vanitas,reminders of our mortality and the risks to the soul of the pleasures of the flesh.

It is not clear, however, that Steen would forbid us to cross the threshold and join the comely and collected woman beyond. The archway through which we are looking is of cold, shadowy stone, whilst the room beyond is illuminated by sunlight and softened by the colourful textures of the curtains about the bed, and the subject’s clothes. The woman’s gaze is honest and confident rather than wicked, and the dog curled up on the bed suggests placid restfulness. It is hard to argue, therefore, that Steen is presenting us with a dramatically drawn moral dilemma, or even condemning those who would cross the threshold to join his subject.

Just as Steen presents us with an open choice, so ter Borch chooses not to condemn his subject in Woman at her Toilet with a Maid (c. 1650-55) which shows a woman, beautiful and graceful, absorbed in herself as her maid stands by ‘with the instruments for the handwashing that will mark the end of this self-absorbed preening,’ as Marjorie E. Wiesemann’s accompanying text puts it. However, the young woman’s vanity does not mark her out as wicked or sinful, but rather she is graceful, her figure and posture well balanced, and we are invited to join her in enjoying a moment of quiet concentration. That the figure is modelled on ter Borch’s sister Gesina explains and confirms the affection inherent in his treatment.

As we have seen, Steen’s subject engages directly with the viewer, whilst ter Borch’s composition allows us to share a moment of stillness as we observe, apparently unnoticed. In Samuel van Hoogstraten’s View of an Interior (‘Les Pantoufles’) the female figure is a stage further removed from our reach. The painting on the back wall is a partial rendering of ter Borch’s Gallant Conversation (c.1654), in which the female subject’s back is turned as she reads a letter, shielding both its contents and her reaction from the viewer, demanding privacy. Here she appears not merely as a faceless image, but the reproduction of that image. And in reproducing the image, Hoogstraten has chosen to remove the two people pictured on the right of ter Borch’s painting, who appear in the original to be discussing the letter with the protagonist. Instead, Hoogstraten includes a boy, perhaps a messenger, who waits silently for a response which does not seem forthcoming.

Since no inhabitant of the rooms is present, we must look to the painting, and other objects, to ascertain something of his or her personality. The set of keys hanging in the door act as a visual prompt to urge us to unlock the silent enigma of the scene. Just as in Steen’s painting, a dark foreground precedes the airy sunshine of the room beyond, tempting us to peer further in. The male painters of these works observe and occasionally engage with their subjects, but ultimately their presence is merely a conduit which allows us, the viewer, access to the silent pastimes, duties and rituals of women and we are left to make our own decisions about their most secretive and silent thoughts and motives.