Potraits of a Noisy Digression

It’s been a loud and sweaty evening. I’ve just returned from Digress, a hot and happening club on Beak Street, off Regent Street in Piccadilly, where Miss Manchester – a good friend from class – was celebrating her birthday. I’m glad I got there early enough to speak with her, to be introduced to her lovely sister, and to lay my hands on a sublime mojito.

For not only did my other friends from class start streaming in thereafter, but also half of London, it seemed, a large proportion of whom appeared to be young ladies out on a hen night, with bunny ears on, bodies grinding and gyrating to the beat, and a drink in hand. The place was so crowded that I gave up trying to get a refill. This was obviously a place where the beautiful people of London hang out on a Saturday evening. Not bad at all.

While heading there on the Tube train, I peered up from my paper, and found myself surrounded by men in brown tweed jackets and ladies with long, monotone flowing dresses. Have I journeyed back in time? For they were all smartly dressed in clothing from the first half of the 20th century. Somewhere in the city, a costume party must be going on.

Earlier in the day, I was at the National Portrait Gallery, which continues to amaze me. It’s not my first visit there, but I’ve never had the opportunity to check out its permanent collections in depth, which represent a virtual tour through British history. Consider that if only the rich and powerful end up having only commissioned portraits of themselves made, it was no wonder that the galleries featured Kings and Queens aplenty, from the Tudor era onwards, plus a good sprinkling of Prime Ministers and politicians, generals and thinkers, scientists and writers.

There are even links to Singapore. At an earlier visit, I was led to the famous portrait of Stamford Raffles – the one which we are all familiar with, featuring him looking magisterial and eminently comfortable with himself.

This time round, I chanced upon a portrait by the great John Singer Sargeant of Frank Swettenham, a colonial administrator in Singapore and the Malay states a hundred years ago.


When I saw it, I had a great sense of deja vu. Something seems strange. Doesn’t the National Heritage Board in Singapore also claim a portrait by Sargeant of Swettenham as among its most prized possessions? Hmmmm.

This question is this - Did Sargeant paint two versions of the same painting? Or is there only one version? Some sleuthing was called for. And according to accounts here and here, the one in Singapore is the real McCoy, with the National Portrait Gallery version being a three-quarter sized scaled-down version intended for Swttenham’s private collection.

Mystery solved : )