
The Guitarist
A young man glances up from his guitar mid-song. Greuze usually painted tearful moral lessons, and here he simply does not.

A young man glances up from his guitar mid-song. Greuze usually painted tearful moral lessons, and here he simply does not.

John stands lost in his book, wrapped in red cloth massed like masonry. One wing of an altarpiece now scattered across five cities.

Dante had been dead nearly two centuries, so this is not a likeness but a verdict, struck in profile like a coin.

An inscription gives his age as ninety-three. Dürer drew him in Antwerp and used the head soon after for a Saint Jerome.

Two fingers raised in a gesture reaching back to Byzantium, one hand on a crystal orb, the face long and sorrowful and unmistakably his.

Washington leans on a cannon with captured flags at his feet. Peale knew him and served in the war, so this is the man.

They shared a Barcelona studio, and Soto was known as a hard drinker, but Picasso painted him sober and sad in blue.

Not the desert hermit but the Doctor of the Church, in cardinal's red with one long hand resting on his own translation of the Bible.

Caught mid-strum with his cap askew and his mouth open, painted so fast the brushstrokes still seem to be moving.

Cocteau sits stiffly upright with his neck drawn long, one of the sharpest personalities in Paris turned into an elegant mask.

Memling put his sitters in front of open countryside instead of a dark ground, an idea that traveled to Italy and came back changed.

Painted in hot colored beeswax and bound over the face of a mummy. The strokes are still visible and the eyes startlingly present.

Rembrandt was barely in his twenties and using his own face as a laboratory for light. Dozens more would follow over forty years.

Cézanne cared less who the man was than whether the head would hold together as structure, and the slight asymmetries keep it alive.

He swivels over his shoulder to look at you, holding a block that nobody can identify, and his name has been lost entirely.

Richelieu appears three times on one canvas so that a sculptor in Rome could carve a bust without ever meeting him.

A peasant looks up from his beans as though caught, spoon halfway to his mouth. Painted decades before Caravaggio's followers made a career of this.

Cold competence and nothing else. Holbein painted him as a near-pendant to Thomas More, whom Cromwell helped send to the scaffold.

Fruit already spotting toward rot, painted with the same attention as the boy holding it. An early statement of what Caravaggio intended.

Raphael had just arrived in Florence and studied the Mona Lisa hard, then did the same pose in clear light instead of smoke.

Cranach was Luther's friend and godfather to his children, and his workshop turned out this face by the score for Protestant Germany.

It was half of a double portrait with George Sand listening at the piano, until somebody cut the canvas in two.

A red cap, a parapet, and a gaze that meets yours. Antonello brought the Netherlandish portrait into Italy and killed off the profile.

Narcissus and his reflection close into a circle around a band of black water, and nothing else exists in the picture.

Mars sits naked and deflated in a plumed helmet with his armor on the floor, looking more like a tired old soldier.

A boy from the street in a crown of roses, painted the year Picasso's blue gloom warmed into rose.

He raises his glass and talks straight at you, painted in slashing strokes laid down about as fast as the moment they catch.

Holbein arrived in England on a letter from Erasmus and painted More at the height of his power. Within a few years More was executed.

Copley painted the silversmith in his shirtsleeves at the bench with a teapot in his hand, which was not how gentlemen were usually shown.

Erasmus is caught mid-sentence with the pen still moving. He sent portraits like this across Europe as a kind of intellectual calling card.

At sixty-three the king still turns out one leg to show the dancer's calf he was proud of, under a cascade of ermine and fleurs-de-lis.

The old man's nose is swollen and ruined by disease, and the boy looks up at him without noticing it at all.

A real Roman boy dressed up as the wine god, heavy-lidded and slightly flushed, holding out a glass while the fruit beside him bruises.

The newspaper magnate leans forward gripping both knees, and the picture became the face of the commercial class that ran nineteenth-century France.

Bellini painted the brocade thread by thread and turned the official portrait from a profile on a coin into a man met face to face.

Erasmus rests his hands on a book whose edge is inscribed The Labors of Hercules, his own joke about how much scholarship costs.

He is neither laughing nor a cavalier. The lace and gold thread on that sleeve were flicked on in a few confident strokes.

The doctor who was caring for him leans his head on one hand, a sprig of foxglove on the table, the background rippling blue.

A young horseman rides into the dusk armed and alert, and nobody has ever agreed who he is or where he is going.

Rembrandt painted himself enthroned like a monarch, staff across his lap, in the same year bankruptcy took his house and everything in it.