Lady Jane finds her place
A blind hand reaches out in search of the pillow from which to gain the sleep of eternity. In a moment another Protestant blade will cross another Catholic neck. The nine-day Queen of England will be a mere lady again.
Paul Delaroche was gregariously maudlin in his choice of subject matter. Born in 1797, the son of a wealthy Paris art dealer who named him Hippolyte (the “Paul” came later, likely with relief), he learned from Antoine-Jean Gros how to make fat paintings. Géricault and Delacroix became his pals as he doled out partisan depictions of history’s piquant moments from a studio in the rue Mazarine.
Delaroche, in a portrait painted the year after he died, looking for all the world like that sneaky Kevin Spacey. See the rest.
