Lady of Learning (Joseph Goodhue Chandler & Lucretia Ann Waite Chandler)
In which a name is more than it seems.
Recently, I found myself wandering through the expansive Massachusetts Five Colleges Database. I punched in a search for “Portrait,” just to see what happened. Nearly 4500 records were found; I paged through every single one of them. (Yes, really. Some, I'm afraid, are better than others.) This appealing portrait quickly became one of my favorites. Painted by the folk portraiture master Joseph Goodhue Chandler, it depicts Mary Lyon (1797-1849), the pioneering female educator and founder of Mount Holyoke College. It’s a very likable image, full of warmth and sincerity alongside that classic New England austerity.
(Thanks to Emily Wood, assistant Curator of Mount Holyoke College Art Museum in South Hadley, MA), for the high-resolution images of both paintings, and for additional context and information!)
The portrait is credited to Joseph Goodhue Chandler, and in the right corner, we can spot “Painted by J.G. Chandler” (always a good sign). However, it’s dated to after 1850, and the label text on the Collections Database cites it as posthumous, allegedly due to its similarity to an 1845 daguerreotype of Mary. Curiously, though, Mary shows none of the telltale signs of postmortem portraiture one might expect to see. She makes direct eye contact with the viewer, capturing your gaze. She is serious, but welcoming, and full of character. Her hand is posed correctly. It all seems to be painted from life, and quite well, too. It represents Mary Lyon exactly as she would’ve liked. (If only we knew what book she’s reading!)
The catalog page eloquently describes the painting:
Mary Lyon sits rigidly behind a sparse table, her demure attire representing not only the modesty of her temperament, but also her vocation. The flinty founder of Mount Holyoke College is a far contrast from the elegant, wealthy sitters [in British portraiture]… for Mary Lyon, Chandler has aptly selected an emblem not of material wealth, but rather one of intellectual prowess.
Lyon’s quest for purposeful direction found resolution in her campaign for a quality women’s seminary. Three years later, she opened the doors to one of the country’s preeminent women’s colleges… Mary Lyon’s efforts were powered by her passion to serve her Lord and promote women capable of pursing meaningful life work. Her admirable devotion to this cause positioned her as a model of perseverance and piety, and over a dozen glorifying monographs emerged following her death.
There’s no denying Mary’s a popular lady, particularly at Mount Holyoke, the institution she created. But imagine my surprise when I saw Mary Lyon by Joseph Goodhue Chandler again.
At a glance, the second Mary, also attributed to Goodhue Chandler, is startlingly similar. Another glance reveals some differences: this Mary is clearly younger, and, though the concept is the same, the artist has changed the position of her book and the nuances of the background. The dimensions are very slightly different (36 x 29 for older Mary, 39 x 29 for younger Mary – both unusually large for a solo portrait). But in both compositions, the book dominates the foreground, showcasing the famous lady’s dedication to learning and scholarship. They are painted with the same philosophy in mind. The Mount Holyoke catalog text for the older Mary applies here, too:
Such humble depictions as this portrait by Joseph Chandler capture the school mistress on a dark background, alone save for the text in her hands. Whether holding a literary tome or the Bible that guided her work, Mary Lyon symbolizes the power of a dedicated vision.
However, overlaying one Chandler Mary Lyon painting with the other reveals some differences (here I’ve used the lower-quality website photos, forgive me.) Despite that likeness, the faces of the Marys are hardly identical. Not only has she aged, but the angle is different, and the feature proportions are not quite the same. Note, for instance, the placement of her nose. Nevertheless, the artistic approach is a convincing match, from the consistency of the color palette to the composition on the canvas. There are too many differences to excuse one as a mere copy of the other, and yet, there are too many similarities to brush off the resemblance.
One possible reconciliation for the Mary quandary lies in the Chandler name. There were two different portrait painters named Chandler, purposefully working in the same style. In fact, they were married!
As it turns out, “Joseph Goodhue Chandler” wasn’t exactly a solo operation. Joseph and his wife, Lucretia Ann Waite, were a successful and prolific pair of artists who worked in tandem over a long and (hopefully) profitable career. Historically, Lucretia has received minimal credit, but it seems absolutely inconceivable that she wouldn’t have been an integral part of the business. As the NGA biography says:
Joseph Goodhue Chandler trained first as a cabinetmaker; later, at some time between the ages of 14 and 19, he traveled to Albany and studied painting with William Collins. His earliest known portraits date from 1837 and are mainly of family members. Chandler married Lucretia Ann Waite (1820-1868), an established painter from Hubbardston, Massachusetts, in 1840. A descendant reported that Lucretia "finished up" her husband's paintings, and the two artists probably collaborated on several portraits. Soon after his marriage, Chandler began his career as an itinerant painter, traveling principally in northwestern Massachusetts until he established a studio in Boston in 1852. In 1860 the Chandlers returned to Hubbardston, where they spent the rest of their lives.
The exact details of Joseph and Lucretia’s process remain unclear, but certainly they must’ve been well-coordinated, almost seamless in artistic similarity. The “Chandler” style is quite easy to spot among unattributed folk portraits. Among signed and unsigned Chandlers, there are very few inconsistencies that suggest the works of multiple artists have been labeled as just one (a common problem for folk artists, often subject to modern errors).
In fact, a staggering number of Chandlers appear in the Five Colleges database. It’s a reasonable place to find them, given their Massachusetts residence. Here are several examples that I’d consider quintessential Chandlers, showcasing the elements that make the style stand out. These include well-rendered faces with saturated skin tones, frequent use of ochre backdrops, and a general approachable, pleasant warmth. (And, at times, oddly long shoes.)
(left to right, top to bottom: Fannie and Ella Graves, 1854; John Dwight, 1842; Nancy E. Dwight and her first child Melatiah, 1842; Miss Abigail C. Dunlap, 1850)
Most of the Five Colleges catalog descriptions, such as this 1844 portrait of Joseph’s grandfather, rightly point out the spouses’ collaboration. That very necessary information nicely fills in the outlines of the Chandlers’ lives:
Framed oil portrait of Dr. Joseph Goodhue (1762-1849) who was the grandfather of the artist, Joseph Goodhue Chandler (1813-1884), which is signed on the lower left back: "Painted for Dr. Joseph Goodhue aged 81 / J. G. Chandler Artist May 1844." … Chandler's earliest portraits date from about 1837, and are primarily those of family members. In 1840, Chandler married Lucretia Ann White (1820-1868), an established painter in Hubbardson, Mass., and they likely collaborated on a number of portraits over the years. Chandler then travelled as an itinerant painter, primarily in northwestern Massachusetts, until he established a studio in Boston in 1852.
Interestingly, that very same label text reappears on two much later works: 1866 portrait of Joseph’s aunt and his uncle (the latter painted from a daguerreotype). So, let’s briefly compare those three images of the Chandler family.
Despite the gap in the time interval, it’s not much of a stretch to suggest these are two different artistic hands. The portrait on the left represents the quintessential Chandler look, stylized and folky, with a welcoming brightness in the faces that makes his portraits easy to enjoy. The portrait in the middle could conceivably be an evolution of that same style, after 20+ years of practice and training. But the one on the right is far more academic, with more modern traits like the dramatic lighting that became popular in the latter half of the 19th century. It is probably the work of the “established painter” Lucretia, who likely received formal training, possibly more than once in her lifetime, and exhibited in the 1856 Boston Athenaeum.
(Amazingly, one of Lucretia’s still lifes has survived all these years. It could even be the “Still Life of Fruit” sold at Sotheby’s in 2022, though there is a conspicuous lack of flowers.)
Ironically, the only extant portrait attributed solely to Lucretia is her 1856 representation of her husband. In it, Joseph is wild-haired and bushy-bearded, with a thoughtful look on his face, avoiding the direct eye contact that defined the portraiture of the first half of the 19th century. (At this time, beards were making their grand comeback, resulting in a mustache-less look that feels slightly odd in the modern day.) If Joseph ever painted Lucretia in turn, we don’t know where it is yet. But, for her part, Lucretia has nicely captured a compelling glimpse at Joseph’s character, immortalizing him with her brush.
It’s especially useful to have an example of Lucretia’s handwriting. Can we learn anything meaningful from comparing it to the extant signature on the older Mary? Well… you tell me.
I’m no graphologist, so I’ll refrain from passing judgment. But they do seem awfully similar.
Let’s return to the paintings. There are some noticeable discrepancies between matched pairs of portraits attributed to Chandler. Consider these two I discovered on the Historic Deerfield site: Nathaniel Lamson and his wife Melinda Prouty Lamson, of Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, c. 1842. There is a real likeness in the styles, enough that the commissioners surely wouldn’t have been disappointed. But looking closely, we can detect that these styles are not exactly the same. Note, for instance, the distinction in the handling of the flesh tones (greenish-blue undertones for him, vivid pinks and reds for her), as well as a starkly different sense of tone and mood.
The obvious explanation reasserts itself. Joseph and Lucretia must've collaborated as a professional pair of portraitists, meandering through Massachusetts in search of commission clients. They had no children, and would've been able to travel freely. They must have divided the work between them. Given Lucretia’s professional success, she seems like a determined lady, so it’s hard to imagine her sitting around while Joseph did all the painting.
Which brings us back to our two Marys. Alike, but not identical.
Did Lucretia paint one, or both, of these? It seems very possible, even likely. Mary might've especially wanted a woman to paint her portrait, given her commitment to female education and achievement. And here, again, I must disagree with that “posthumous” assessment offered by the catalog record. There’s so much life in her face in both images. The older Mary portrait may have been inspired by the younger, but there are too many differences in the facial features for one to be a direct copy of the other. It seems overwhelmingly likely to me that Chandler (or, rather, the Chandlers) painted her from life.
Fortunately, we can meaningfully compare these images with other known representations of Mary. The younger Mary was probably painted closer to the late 1830s or early 40s. In the paintings, Mary looks older than this 1837 miniature, which has taken a few beautifying liberties with her features. And that 1845 daguerreotype clearly depicts an older woman than we see in the Chandler portraits.
But none of that answers the next obvious question. Why are there two copies of essentially the same painting?
Unfortunately, the museum’s acquisition record does not provide any further clarity about our Mary predicament. The older Mary has an acquisition number of MH 1885.22.l(b).PI, a complex code that suggests she arrived in 1885, and “Credit Line” unfortunately says “Source and date of acquisition unknown.” The younger Mary is not much better. Her acquisition number is MH 2004.1 (a much simpler format!) Her “Credit Line” declares “Transfer from the Mount Holyoke College Library. Conserved with funds from the Cincinnati Mount Holyoke Club, 2004.” At least now we know Younger Mary arrived 119 years after Older Mary. Otherwise, all information is frustratingly scarce.
There is one small and tempting detail: on the reverse of younger Mary, states the catalog record, “Large stamp on the reverse of the canvas reads: Prepared/by/O.Searns/No. 9 Amo.... Hall/Boston.” And yet, maddeningly, Mary's canvas is the only example I could find with an "O. Searns" stamp (for now).
At any rate, it’s good to know both versions of Mary are back where they belong, letting that fine educator watch over the fruits of her labors. In 2024, Mary 1 officially resurfaced to see the modern world, as described by Jennifer Grow for Mount Holyoke Alumnae Quarterly:
On display throughout the President’s House — and outside her office on the second floor of Mary Lyon Hall — are more than two dozen works of art from the permanent collection of the Mount Holyoke College Art Museum. Continuing a recent tradition, President Danielle R. Holley — in partnership with Museum staff — selected the works to be displayed, and they were installed last fall… Also on the main floor of the house is an oil painting of Mary Lyon familiar to most alums.
There she is, framed by a beautifully patterned backdrop of William Morris wallpaper. Perhaps Mary would’ve appreciated that; she maintained a close friendship with the highly talented botanical illustrator Orra White Hitchcock, wife of Amherst College’s third president Edward, who rescued the college from financial woes and rehabilitated its reputation. Edward had a decades-long career at Amherst as a lecturer on various broad-ranging and groundbreaking scientific topics, and all the while, Orra designed and painted the indispensable illustrations for his classroom, solidifying an artistic legacy that the humble lady could not have foreseen.
Was there any artistic connection between Orra, Mary, and Lucretia? It’s impossible to say — maybe even a reach, I know. But it’s a nice thought. At the very least, we know for sure that one or both of the Chandlers had the opportunity to paint a portrait of Mary that’s stood the test of time.
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For an extra bonus, I discovered a wonderfully clear copy of Mary’s portrait on the cover of this book showcasing her writings, highlighting the ruddy skin tones and lively gazes that define the Chandler style of folk portraiture.
