A Brush with History: The St. Louis Exposition Commission
In the wake of the successful St. Louis World’s Fair of 1904, where a portrait of Empress Dowager Cixi had been ceremoniously presented to the U.S. government, I found myself lingering in China to complete unfinished business. This extraordinary commission—the first official Western portrait of the Qing Dynasty’s de facto ruler—represented more than artistic achievement; it was a fragile cultural bridge between a reclusive empire and the modernizing world.
The assignment had been fraught with diplomatic significance. At a time when the Boxer Rebellion’s aftermath still strained China’s foreign relations, Cixi’s unprecedented decision to permit an American artist, myself, to reside within the Forbidden City signaled a calculated openness. The portrait destined for St. Louis carried dual symbolism: to Western audiences, a humanized image of the so-called “Dragon Lady”; to conservative court factions, a radical departure from imperial tradition.
Spring in the Summer Palace: A Court in Bloom
By late April, as Beijing shed its winter austerity, Cixi ordered the court’s return to the Yihe Yuan (Summer Palace). The sprawling complex awakened with seasonal brilliance—willow tendrils trembled in balmy breezes while peonies, China’s revered “king of flowers,” staged their imperial spectacle. These blooms, with petals ranging from crimson like “cinnabar” to white as “mutton-fat jade,” became Cixi’s living jewels. Their ephemeral grandeur mirrored her own performative sovereignty, where nature and statecraft intertwined.
My daily walks with Jin Hupo, my golden retriever, through the gardens offered glimpses into courtly leisure. The dog’s joyful disruptions—chasing sparrows or startling rabbits—contrasted with my quiet contemplation of Prince Chun’s calligraphy. These moments revealed the palace’s dual nature: a stage for rigid protocol, yet also a living space where personalities emerged.
The Artist’s Sanctuary: Painting Behind the Curtain
Cixi’s thoughtfulness shone in her preparation of my studio. Recognizing my need for quiet, she selected an airy pavilion with panoramic views—though its proximity to the opera house proved problematic. The cacophony of gongs and erhus during performances (sometimes thrice weekly) necessitated strategic retreats to the American legation.
My work now focused on creating a smaller replica of the St. Louis portrait for Cixi’s personal keeping, plus refining two additional paintings. The process required meticulous attention; every brushstroke balanced artistic integrity with diplomatic sensitivity. Cixi’s occasional critiques—like requesting sharper definition on a sleeve’s embroidery—highlighted cultural divergences in artistic perception. Where I employed Western impressionistic techniques to suggest texture, she expected photographic precision.
The Emperor’s Silent Protest: A Cartographic Revelation
A startling discovery interrupted this routine. Returning from one escape to the legation, I found a theater program on my desk—transformed into a geopolitical cipher. In vermilion ink (exclusively reserved for emperors), Guangxu had sketched the Russo-Japanese War’s Manchurian battlegrounds, complete with the Great Wall demarcation.
This clandestine cartography unveiled the emperor’s suppressed statecraft. Publicly reduced to a ceremonial figurehead after the failed 1898 reforms, Guangxu’s map revealed acute awareness of foreign encroachments. The crude sketch screamed what court etiquette silenced: while Cixi managed palace politics, her nephew agonized over territorial dismemberment. That he chose my studio for this act of covert expression suggested both trust and desperation.
The Diplomatic Garden Party: Soft Power in Bloom
Cixi’s orchestration of a multinational ladies’ gathering showcased her nuanced statecraft. When critiquing my “overly plain” attire, she pinned a peony to my dress—a gesture blending maternal warmth with political theater. Her sudden proposal to exhibit my paintings to the diplomatic corps seemed impulsive, yet subsequent events proved otherwise.
Arriving at my studio with the entourage, I found everything meticulously arranged—clearly premeditated. The “spontaneous” exhibition allowed Cixi to control her image’s dissemination while demonstrating cultural openness. Foreign praise for the portraits became implicit endorsement of her rule. Yet her insistence on “correcting” the sleeve’s ambiguity revealed limits to this openness; even in art, control remained paramount.
The Modernizing Autocrat: Cixi’s Contradictions
Living nine months within the court’s gilded cage afforded unique insights into Cixi’s complex modernity. Her swift adoption of photography after witnessing its efficiency shattered stereotypes of Luddite conservatism. The very existence of my commission—a foreigner capturing the imperial visage for global consumption—demonstrated pragmatic adaptability.
Yet contradictions abounded. The same woman who embraced cameras maintained elaborate palace flower rituals straight from the Ming Dynasty. She encouraged my Western perspective yet demanded artistic alterations to suit traditional aesthetics. This duality defined late-Qing reform efforts: superficial modernization preserving core authoritarianism.
Farewell to the Forbidden City: Legacy of a Portrait
Departing the Summer Palace stirred unexpected melancholy. Cixi’s offer to become a permanent courtier reflected genuine affection, but also her isolation. The four completed portraits—diplomatic gifts, personal mementos, and historical documents—froze in pigment a regime racing against time.
Historically, these paintings mark a turning point. They demystified Chinese leadership for Western audiences while setting precedents for cross-cultural exchange. For Cixi, they were vanity projects and propaganda tools. For me, they became portals to a vanishing world—one where peonies bloomed with imperial grandeur, and silent emperors drew maps of despair on opera programs.
The portraits outlived their subjects. Within four years, both Cixi and Guangxu would be dead, their empire crumbling. But in those 1904 brushstrokes endure questions about perception and power: Who really controlled the image—the artist, the empress, or the audience beyond the palace walls? The answer, like Cixi’s embroidered sleeve, remains beautifully ambiguous.