John Singer Sargent is the sort of artist who aggravates the critics. In the eyes of Critic A he offends by virtue of having been a salon painter, producing portraits to commission, demonstrating little original artistic vision and embodying sickly late Victoriana. Critic B, on the other hand, is anxious about the way in which Sargent’s works, which largely depict wealthy white sitters, are bound up with privilege.
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