A Tale of Two Hameys: Part Three (Anthony Van Dyck)
(Author’s note: This hefty chunk of research dates back to July, but was delayed. Certain materials are still absent. So the mystery's a bit inconclusive, but the rest is perfectly readable.)
Let’s start with the theft.
Or maybe it was a gift. It could’ve been a perfectly legitimate off-the-record sale, or a simple mishap. Maybe it simply fell off the wall, landed in someone’s pocket by mistake, and walked out on its own, with everyone else none the wiser. Who are we to say, centuries later? All we can say is that, from 1732 to 1915, the Anthony Van Dyck painting of Dr. Baldwin Hamey, Junior, disappeared from the record entirely.
Perhaps we shouldn’t assume the worst. Although, based on historical precedent, it’s fair to speculate that someone knew its value and made off with it. It’s not the first nor last time that an Old Master has vanished without explanation. But, at the moment, it’s impossible to know. Instead, for context, I’ll point to David Man’s 2015 genealogical tome “Palmer Family of Roydon and Chelsea,” (p. 24-25):
In the College of Physicians are two portraits of Hamey: one at the age of thirty-eight by Sir Anthony van Dyck and the other by Matthew Snelling. The former portrait is mentioned in one of Ralph Palmer's letters (Ingilby MSS.), dated 12th May 1732. A bust was executed at the expense of the College and placed there in 1684.
Unfortunately, from the middle of the eighteenth century and into the 21st century the van Dyck portrait 'disappeared…’ However, before doing so a copy of it had been made [possibly by Jonathan Richardson] at Palmer's behest and presented by him to his friend Edward Butler president of Magdalen College, Oxford, (...to be placed among the other worthies of the University.)
His escape had never actually been solved — but never fear. In 2012, the painting miraculously reappeared, thanks to the efforts of the Philip Mould Gallery and the cooperation of an unknown American collector. Now, Hamey’s been returned to the Royal College of Physicians (RCP), right where he belongs. But it remains a mystery in hindsight.
“It seems to me possible that the Vandyck of Hamey is with some branch of the Verney family. If you could suggest a possible collection, I would write to the owner.”
If you’re losing track of the genealogy (I did, many times), the same source offers a handy diagram. Note the many Ralphs.
The mystery goes on. If, by some chance, the Van Dyck Hamey was still around in 1755, but it descended to the other brother (the even more creatively named Hamey Palmer), then… as per the terms of Hamey Palmer’s will, it would’ve passed on to his daughter Julia Maria Palmer… who married a man named Nathaniel Gundry… who donated all of the Hamey relics to the RCP! (Remember that poisonous cup?)
And there it wasn’t.
(A small digression: I must give credit to my friend, the blogger Baldwin Hamey, for discovering an extra bonus Hamey. In the second Ralph Palmer’s will, he mentions only one painting, but not the one we want. Instead, it’s the “Grandfather Palmer’s picture, an Oval, with Dr Hameys on the back of it in a case.” This probably refers to a miniature (also now lost, of course). Surely no one painted on the reverse of a Van Dyck!)
The Hamey were a stubborn and persistent bunch, hard to get rid of. Even the missing Cornelius Johnson painting of Hamey Senior was last seen in the hands of his descendants, the Ellacombe family. No such luck for Junior. By all logic, he would have eventually been inherited by the same group, if not for some external interruption.
The man himself, Baldwin Hamey Jr., was a renowned patron of the College, and, at times, its singlehanded savior. His youthful likeness, which now hangs safe and sound within its walls, joins another representation of Hamey as an elderly man (which I described in Part 2 of this Hamey series), completing the bookends to his life. As a freshly certified Van Dyck masterpiece, it’s one of the crown jewels of the RCP’s collection, and hopefully always will be.
It’s impossible to hear the name Van Dyck and not know the picture’s quality and worth. Besides, it’s an intrinsically appealing portrait; Hamey comes across as pleasant and unassuming by nature. Unlike the later copy, he bears no inscription or name, so he would have additional value to someone who knew him and recognized his likeness.
But how and why did Baldwin, a humble physician, have his portrait painted by the elite Anthony Van Dyck, court painter and artistic celebrity?
Most likely, they were friends. We know from written records that Baldwin held Van Dyck in great esteem, and it was probably a mutual friendship (Baldwin was a likable sort, according to nearly all biographies). The connection might’ve formed through Van Dyck and Hamey’s common experiences in the Dutch community in England. Baldwin was born in London, but his father was a Dutch immigrant.
There are no surviving documents or correspondence between them, but Hamey was so avidly compelled by Van Dyck’s talents that in 1641, upon his tragic early passing, Hamey composed a obituary for his “Bustorum aliquot Reliquae” compendium, elevating him to the status of the timeless Renaissance greats. Within, he waxes poetic about his memories of Van Dyck’s time on this earth. Hamey’s obituary adds a lot of soul and heart to this art investigation, which (in my sentimental opinion) is always the best part.
Anthony Van Dyck of Belgium, who must be counted among the foremost of painters, departed before his time and was buried in London's largest church in the month of December 1641, a man to whom we rightly ascribe wisdom, as Aristotle did Phidias and Polycletus, and, in his highest mastery of his art, discernment beyond his craft. He was above all a follower of Titian, whom Charles the Fifth raised to a nobleman's rank as our Charles knighted this follower of his…
[Van Dyck] always knew how to accomplish marvellous things so naturally with hardly an effort, and when to take his hand off the picture at the right time, free from blame.
Similarly he once reproduced the flowing tears of a mother bereft of her only child so truly that a country girl of ten that happened to see so sad an image rushed to it - I was present - and pulled a handkerchief out of a fold of her dress to wipe the cheeks of the weeping woman.
(Obituary excerpt via the exhibit catalog “Finding Van Dyck,” 2012, Philip Mould Gallery.)
Such specific anecdotes about Van Dyck’s working methods indicate personal familiarity. Perhaps Hamey spent his free time at his studio (at least, the limited free time he must’ve had.) When I inquired with Dr. Bendor Grosvenor, author of many sections of “Finding Van Dyck,” he mentioned, “It probably was one of the pictures he dashed off in a single sitting.” This seems to correspond with Hamey’s line, “when to take his hand off the picture at the right time, free from blame.” No doubt some sitters were irked at having their sessions cut short. But Hamey must’ve been quite satisfied with his one-session portrait. By nature he was a humble man, and likely felt honored to get a piece of Van Dyck’s work at all.
We find further confirmation in this extensive Van Dyck catalog from 2004 (p. 420), describing the details of the artist’s routine:
Meanwhile, his reference to the small child fooled by a realistic painting of a grieving mother is very touching, but was far more difficult to pin down and research.
Van Dyck’s oeuvre is so vast that I couldn’t possibly begin to cross-match a specific painting with any accuracy — though, if I had to guess, it may have been Mary lamenting the death of Jesus, of which there are many variations. It could plausibly have been something like this or this. As mentioned in “Finding Van Dyck,” it’s possible that a small child of the 1600s might’ve believed Van Dyck’s convincing representations of raw emotion and deep human grief.
And did that incident happen at a public exhibition of some sort? It must have been; where else would such an encounter have occurred? Certainly not the palace of Charles & co. It’s hard to imagine a “country girl of ten” being invited to visit.
The palace may also have something to do with the Hamey and Van Dyck connection. As the king’s newly favored court painter, Van Dyck moved in elevated crowds, and Hamey Junior was a great fan of the royals (I’ve written about that a bit further here.) It is conceivable that, since the two of them were in the same general milieu, they could’ve met there. But the Dutch immigrant connection is more likely. Unfortunately, we may never know.
It feels appropriate that Van Dyck’s portrait of Hamey represents the man on a purely human level, simply dressed and unadorned by any trappings of wealth. Compare the pleasant, approachable Hamey with a far more complex Van Dyck: his triple portrait of Charles I. The king’s outfit is full of majesty and splendor, but his eyes are haunted. There is a palpable sense of mortality. Maybe Charles I already had an idea of his inescapable fate.
Speaking of kings, Hamey was a royalist throughout his life, but his dedication to the throne was not a lifelong affair. He was greatly disillusioned by the king upon their first meeting, and even ceased collecting his once-prized Stuart memorabilia. Though he had donated to Charles II’s cause during his absence, Hamey notably declined a knighthood and a role as court physician upon his return. He claimed to be considering retirement at the time, but in all likelihood, Hamey found it inappropriate to accept a reward offered only for his financial support, rather than his medical skill, or his strength of character.
Keevil, the Hamey biographer, describes the occasion (“The Stranger’s Son, p. 129):
Two personalities could not have been more opposed than the debonair, worldly confident King with his tall commanding presence, and the diffident little physician, emotional, ill at ease and expressing himself in the language of a grammarian adorned with the symbolism of a past age. In a flash of insight Hamey must have seen that the King in no way corresponded to the image of him which he had formed.
Hamey confided later to Dr. Daniel Whistler that the King had offered him a knighthood and the appointment of his physician in ordinary. His judgment combined perhaps with an emotional reaction made him refuse both honours. If Hamey had any intention of returning the Stuart relics, he abandoned it, giving them instead to his Palmer relatives.
Hamey had no further association with the royal family and never made any reference to these matters or to King Charles II in the records which he and his family kept with such care. In his will he made no special provision for the safe keeping of the Stuart relics.
You have to wonder what Charles actually said to him.
Unfortunately, we’ll never know. There aren’t even any 17th-century records of the portrait. We only know because of Ralph Palmer that Van Dyck painted Baldwin Hamey in 1638, having “so pleased and charmed Sir Anthony Vandyke by his countenance,” etc, etc. At long last, when Baldwin luckily turned up in 2012, he was heavily documented in the Philip Mould Gallery’s exhibit catalog “Finding Van Dyck,” which contains a pertinent footnote with the sum total of Hamey’s known whereabouts:
The provenance here starts at 1732, the first known record, and skips ahead to 1926. Following some significant efforts by me, this can now be enhanced by a 1915 record, and the gap slightly filled.
2012: An insightful art historical article by Sietske Fransen, which I’ve often cited elsewhere, lists the copyright for a Hamey Jr. picture as Andrew T Farren, New York:
It is impossible for me to say whether Mr. Farren is the private collector who was fortunate enough to get hold of the picture, or just the photographer. Regardless, as we know, the owner contacted the Philip Mould Gallery to research the picture’s origins, with great success:
But before that…
2012-1926: An ongoing mystery. It’s likely that the painting remained in private collections throughout the 20th century. I don’t know how many times it changed hands, nor what motivated the final new owner to reach out to Philip’s gallery (though I’d love to find out).
But despite the lack of any inscription or proper family history, Baldwin was somehow lucky enough to keep his name all along. He’s on record in…
1926: …Christie’s London, bought and sold in the April 16, 1926 auction referenced in the “Finding Van Dyck” record. Here we can find Hamey purchased by one “Barclay” for 15 pounds, 15 shillings. Funnily, there were two Van Dycks on that page; poor Baldwin was deemed much less valuable.
The identity of “Barclay” is still unknown to me. The Getty Provenance Index Collectors Files turned up five Barclays but little more. I did a subsequent search of the larger Getty Provenance Index (search term “barclay” in the owner field, otherwise blank), which unveiled the existence of several collector Barclays. Most were from the 1800s — not so helpful. However, page two had something more exciting:
Now we’ve located a mysterious American “S. Barclay,” linked to December 1926 transactions… resulting in the grand breakthrough of a single first initial. I believe we’ve cracked the case.
1913: ...another Christie’s sale, February 28, 1913:
The following are the Property of SIR RALPH WILMOT, Bart., and have been removed from Stubton Hall, Lincoln.
121: Sir A. Van Dyck. Portrait of Dr. Baldwin Hamey. In dark coat, with white linen ruff, oval - 25½ in by 22 in.
The owner, Sir Ralph Wilmot (6th Baronet) comes from an esteemed lineage of Wilmots. It may not surprise you to discover the original Wilmot had something to do with the medical profession:
The Wilmot Baronetcy, of Chaddesden in the County of Derby, was created in the Baronetage of Great Britain on 15 February 1759 for Edward Wilmot, Physician to the Army and Physician-in-Ordinary to King George II and King George III. By 1912 Sir Ralph Wilmot (6th Bart) had inherited another estate at Stubton in Lincolnshire.
Back to the other physician: this auction listing can only be our very own unmistakable Dr. Baldwin Hamey, by Sir Anthony Van Dyck. The transaction is further recorded in print in the 1912-13 “Art Prices Current:”
Baldwin was in decent company at this sale alongside some other well-known artists, though that painting was the only Wilmot item purchased by the dealer Nicholson. Peculiarly, in news records of the Christie’s auction, Van Dyck’s Hamey wasn’t even mentioned. The New York Times (1913-03-01) lists just about every other painting instead:
And the British journal Athenaeum of March 8, 1913 similarly omits Baldwin but keeps the minutiae:
The New York Times mentions “pictures from Sir Ralph Wilmot’s collection,” and the Athenaeum says “the following pictures were property of Sir Ralph Wilmot.” Neither one is as honest as that original catalog, “Removed from Stubton Hall, Lincoln,” which seems rather ominous to me. What reasons lay behind that? Did a debt need to be paid, and thus, some paintings were liquidated? It was completely unexplained in all sources I consulted. I had to dig deeper.
For guidance on the Wilmot provenance, I’ve consulted Peter Cholerton, author of this tremendous guide on “Chaddesden Hall, the seat of the Wilmot family.” Peter has been very happy to chat about the subject, and his meticulous research has provided some of the best leads of all. He told me:
I hadn't seen the details of the 1913 sale of paintings from Stubton Hall before. Unfortunately I don't have any further information about this sale, although the fact that another Hamey (Junior) portrait was involved reinforces my feeling that Richard Mead had been actively collecting pictures of his illustrious predecessors at the College of Physicians and that these had been inherited by the Wilmot family.
I was surprised that there was no information on the 1913 situation. Peter’s knowledge of the Wilmots is encyclopedic (a few times, I’ve had to postpone my email replies to him so I could figure out a topic well enough to look competent!) So, if he hadn’t heard of that 1913 sale, the rest of us are completely out of luck.
But he’s right. My research has shown that the Wilmot family did have a startling number of pictures of doctors, including our very own valuable Hamey that went missing so long ago.
Which brings us to the final query:
BEFORE 1913: How did the Wilmots get it?
At times, my exploration of the convoluted and complex Wilmot family line has felt like more trouble than it’s worth. I won’t subject you to the whole thing right here and now. But turning up the necessary evidence has made it all worthwhile, and the gargantuan task of untangling it — and tracing the name Hamey — revealed an awkward truth that can’t just be a coincidence.
The Wilmots had more than one Hamey.
A 1918 record from the National Portrait Gallery* places this 1633 portrait of Baldwin Hamey, Senior directly in the hands of the Wilmots, too – the estate of “Lady Ada Wilmot.” The picture of Senior (still unattributed) is a startlingly excellent portrait, striking and memorable in a way that exceeds its own time period. I saw it on ArtUK by chance, and was so compelled that it launched this entire investigation.
Atrociously, Senior’s artist (still unknown) has been mis-recorded in the 1918 provenance as “Van Loamer,” a misspelling of an erroneous “Van Soamer,” which is meant to be “Van Somer.” That was a later mistake, inscribed directly on the painting, despite its 1633 label — Van Somer died 12 years earlier! Peculiarly, whoever wrote Baldwin Hamey/“van Soamer” knew exactly who the sitter was, but seemingly nothing about art history.
*As per the NPG’s terms and limitations, I can’t include the image of the “Van Loamer” letter, but I will transcribe it here. It’s from John Simpson Derbyshire, addressed to the Director of the National Portrait Gallery, sent from The Croft, Mapperley Park, Nottingham, September 19th, 1918.
Dear Sir,
Amongst a parcel of Old Pictures that have recently been placed in my hands from the Estate of Lady Ada Wilmot are several very old Portraits evidently of considerable importance, and it has occurred to me that should any of your officials be in the neighbourhood of Nottingham they might be of national interest.
One is a Portrait of Richard Mead M.D. attributed to Kneller.
One is Edward Wilmot Physician in ordinary to King George III. Physician to George 2nd. attributed to Lely.
a further example bears on side in addition to an important crest, and the date 1633, Bald Hamey Senior M.D. London. Van Loamer Pinxit.
Another one is a Portrait of a Lady dated 1760 "A Pond".
Should these interest you it would be a great pleasure to make an appointment for you to view them.
With Compliments,
I am Sir, Yours faithfully,
John Derbyshire
(They did not catch the Director’s eye. John Derbyshire might've slightly oversold that “national interest.”)
But, disregarding any past apathy, I think the letter is very exciting. There are some incredibly familiar names on that list. So familiar, in fact, that it seems a bit contrived, and yet, here we are.
As mentioned above, my correspondent Peter Cholerton proposed that the very same Richard Mead (1673-1754), renowned doctor and art collector, had something to do with all of this. Mead’s daughter, Sarah, married Sir Edward Wilmot (that same one again). The record survives in his memorial in St. Mary's Church, Chaddesden, Derbyshire (thanks to Peter, again, for the photograph):
All Wilmot roads so far have led back to Mead, the medical connoisseur. Was he the one who tucked the Van Dyck Hamey Junior in his pocket? I certainly hope not. But someone must've done it. Baldwin didn't just wander away; he's only a bust portrait, and has no legs.
At the moment, it’s impossible to say how the Wilmots came to own the Hameys, despite everyone’s best efforts. In addition to all of the other assistance, Peter also turned up an inventory index – and a photograph – of Hamey’s temporary home, the Wilmots’ Chaddesden Hall itself:
I re-read my transcript of Heathcote's 1916 valuation of the fittings in Chaddesden Hall (Derbyshire Record Office: D5126/1/119). The book itself has the title "VALUATIONS 399" on its spine… there are a few references to a second book (VALUATIONS 400), which as I mentioned previously is now apparently lost…. The various paintings were listed room by room along with all the Wilmots' other possessions and here is what I found:
Portrait of a Gentleman in embroidered Coat with terrestrial globe at side. Artist unknown. £25
Portrait of Sir Edward Wilmot. £25
Portrait of Robert Mead, M.D. £40
Large Oil ptg, "Gent.n in Wig & Lady". £2 2s 0d
Portrait of Queen Caroline, Wife of George II. £105
Portrait of a Gentleman. £20
Portrait of a Gent. with Wig. £20
Portrait of a Gent.n. £15
Portrait of a Gent.n in Wig £20
of a Gentleman in olive green coat & blue satin waistcoat. £25
Portrait of a Gentleman. £15 15s 0d
ditto £15 15s 0d
Portrait of Gentn. in black coat. £5 5s 0d
Portrait of Gentn. in gilt fr. £0 3s 0d
I have included some of the vague entries, e.g Gentleman in a Wig, etc., to give you an idea of the very brief descriptions contained in the book. Perhaps the reason for this lies in the fact that the valuation was undertaken in early 1916 during the First World War, so maybe some of Heathcote's key valuers were away on military service.
Hamey could’ve been anywhere in that vast home, and we would never know.
It seems our best option is to trace the other end of the provenance trail. Perhaps we could figure out the situation in which Hamey Senior would’ve been painted, just as we analyzed why Van Dyck might’ve met and painted Hamey Junior. But I still can’t speak to the true artistic hand, because I don’t know that yet, either.
I’ve briefly discussed Senior’s life history in Part 1 of A Tale of Two Hameys, and I plan to explain more at length in a future installment. For now, suffice it to say that Senior and Junior’s portraits seem to be equal in quality — and I’d love to know why. Perhaps Van Dyck, or his studio, had something to do with both.
Hamey’s obituary ends with some touching remarks, relevant to these current musings:
[Van Dyck] knew how to create characters more than all writers and poets, and as we say that it is from God that we receive life and from a physician, in a way, that we recover it, so let us proclaim that we preserve youth in old age, and retain life in death itself — not with a story perverted into a portent — through the gift of so great an artist; and finally let us suspect that he was taken from us at hardly more than forty years of age by Fate who could bear no longer the hindrance of carrying off twice all those who, like me, had made use of his art.
The “made use of his art” line has been examined in “Finding Van Dyck,” very rightfully proving that Hamey commissioned art from Van Dyck. That much is very clear. However, I’m perplexed by that line “Fate who could bear no longer the hindrance of carrying off twice.” What on earth does that mean? If anyone knows, please leave a comment.
The original Latin is printed in the back. Feel free to take a crack at the paragraph yourself:
Fuit enim Prosopopoeiae, super omnes Rhetores Poetasque, gnarissimus; eoque, ut a Deo dicimus vitam accipere, et a medico eandem quodammodo recipere: sic iuventutem in senectute conservare, vitamque, sine fabula in miraculum corrupta, in ipsa morte retinere, tanti artificis munere, pronunciemur: et suspicemur denique, abreptum hunc vix quadragenario maiorem, Fato, bis tollendi omnes, arte eius, mecum usos, non ferente diutius moram.
I’ll concede defeat on re-interpreting that last line. I couldn’t do any better overall, nor could I make sense of the “carrying away twice” situation. But I can confirm with certainty that “arte eius, mecum usos” refers to “his art, which I made use of.” It can be translated with any number of nuances, but it absolutely does confirm that Hamey used Van Dyck’s artistic talents for… something.
That line probably refers to the Junior portrait. However, in “Bustorum,” Hamey presents Van Dyck’s work in such grand terms that it feels a bit dissonant with the humble simplicity of the portrait we know. I think there’s a chance that Hamey may have had a portrait of someone else commissioned, perhaps his father. Think back to that line that references “preserving youth in old age, and retaining life in death itself.” Hamey’s beloved father Baldwin Senior had died just a year prior, in 1640. Having his father’s memory preserved in such a flattering painting — especially by someone of Van Dyck’s skill and caliber — would undoubtedly have been cherished by Baldwin Junior.
Beyond that, if there is a Van Dyck of Senior, it could be 1633 Hamey, but it doesn’t quite look like Van Dyck. Then again, it doesn’t look like the work of any other well-known hands at that time and place, either. It’s a departure from all standard forms, with the sitter facing directly forward. Van Dyck was similarly innovative in his poses and compositions, but there’s no direct match among the known VD works. That picture is a compelling unsolved quandary, adding another layer to the Hamey archaeological dig.
Let’s return to Junior. After Van Dyck painted his picture, he presumably gave it to the Hameys, who kept it in the family until it was inherited by Baldwin’s grand-nephew and biggest fan, Ralph Palmer, Esq. Ralph proudly kept the portrait in his collection, claiming (rather optimistically) that it was one of the finest Van Dycks of all time. Ralph's documentation dates to 1730 and 1732, including observations by the “eminent and judicious artist” Jonathan Richardson, who rightly observed some unusual brushstrokes. As “Finding Van Dyck” explains, the ruff must have been the work of Van Dyck’s assistants. Baldwin doesn't seem like the sort of person to insist that the master artist should waste his valuable time on trivial details.
Sometime after the end of Ralph Palmer’s life, the Van Dyck Hamey left his home at Little Chelsea, bringing us back to the dead end. But Ralph had some foresight. There's one foolproof way that the identity of the resurfaced Hamey portrait can be completely confirmed. It has a thoroughly documented copy, commissioned and donated in 1732 to Oxford (Baldwin’s alma mater) by, of course, Ralph Palmer.
The duplicate is close, but not exact. His facial proportions are slightly altered. The color and tone sensibilities are different, rendering his ruff and features with darker, thicker shading. And the brushstrokes are clearly nowhere near Van Dyck. The identity of the copyist, still unconfirmed, was probably Palmer’s friend and favorite artist – the great Jonathan Richardson – as other historians have rightly suggested. (Remember the very beginning of this article?)
We’ll deal with that next time. For now, Richardson is a logical conjecture, though I believe it can be solidly proven. I intend to try. But, regardless of the exact authorship of Baldwin 2, the painting must have served as an invaluable comparison tool when Baldwin 1 re-entered the art world. After hard work and insightful scrutiny, Hamey has reclaimed his place as a regular citizen amid the world of Van Dyck’s royal masterpieces.
I’m glad to see him there.
- - -
Thanks for reading. This article is a particularly long one, so I commend your fortitude. It's also a work in progress, sort of. I'd intended to figure out why Baldwin disappeared, among other things. As you can tell, I didn't. That remains a mystery, barring future developments. Until then, the show must go on.
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