Vox Meditantis

Leicester Fields, London – 16th July, 1769

James barely noticed the church bells chiming noon as he ground the lapis lazuli into powder, the precious blue pigment slowly transforming beneath his pestle. The morning light had shifted to something richer, more golden, streaming through the tall windows of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ studio in Leicester Fields, yet the young apprentice remained bent over his work, utterly absorbed in the rhythmic motion of stone against stone.

In the corner, Sir Joshua worked with quiet intensity at his easel, and somewhere between the rhythmic grinding and the soft scratch of brush against canvas, the afternoon began to slip away unnoticed. The studio held that particular quality of suspended time that seemed to envelope all places where true artistry flourished—a sanctuary where hours could vanish like morning mist, leaving only the work itself as proof of their passing.

“Mind the consistency, James,” Reynolds murmured without lifting his eyes from the canvas. “Lady Montagu’s gown demands the finest ultramarine, and I’ll not have it spoiled by haste.”

James nodded, though his master’s attention remained fixed upon the portrait before him. The young man had been apprenticed to the great painter for nearly two years now, yet still felt the thrill of proximity to genius. Reynolds was no ordinary master; he was the first President of the Royal Academy, a man whose brushstrokes could transform mere canvas into windows to the soul. To work alongside him was to witness magic made manifest through pigment and oil.

The commission they laboured upon today held particular significance. Lady Elizabeth Montagu, wife to the influential Edward Montagu, had requested a portrait to commemorate her coming of age—a piece that would hang in the family’s ancestral hall for generations to come. Such work demanded perfection, not merely in technique but in the very essence of artistic vision.

James had observed his master’s process countless times, yet never failed to marvel at the transformation that occurred when Reynolds took up his brush. The man seemed to enter a different realm entirely, one where ordinary concerns fell away like autumn leaves, leaving only the pure pursuit of artistic truth.

As the afternoon wore on, James found himself increasingly drawn into the hypnotic rhythm of his work. The grinding of pigments became meditation, each rotation of the pestle a prayer to the gods of colour and light. He mixed the ultramarine with the finest oil, testing consistency upon a piece of glass until it achieved that perfect balance between fluidity and richness that Reynolds demanded.

The studio itself seemed to breathe with creative energy. Canvases lined the walls in various stages of completion—portraits of merchants and nobles, studies of light and shadow, experiments in technique that pushed the boundaries of what portraiture might achieve. The air hung thick with the scent of turpentine and linseed oil, a perfume that had become as familiar to James as his own heartbeat.

“The light is changing,” Reynolds observed, setting down his brush with the careful precision of a surgeon. “We must adapt our approach accordingly.”

James looked up from his work, suddenly aware that the golden afternoon light had indeed shifted, casting longer shadows across the studio floor. When had that happened? He could have sworn it was barely past noon, yet the quality of illumination suggested otherwise.

“Shall I light the lamps, Sir Joshua?” he asked, rising from his stool with joints stiff from prolonged concentration.

“Not yet,” Reynolds replied, stepping back to examine his work with a critical eye. “Natural light serves us better for flesh tones. We must work with what Providence provides, even as it changes.”

The master’s dedication to his craft was legendary throughout London’s artistic circles. Stories abounded of Reynolds working through the night, so absorbed in capturing the perfect expression that he forgot to eat or sleep. James had thought such tales mere exaggeration until he became apprenticed to the man himself. Now he understood that true artistry demanded nothing less than complete surrender to the creative process.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Reynolds’ housekeeper appeared at the studio door, her expression one of familiar resignation. “Begging your pardon, Sir Joshua, but you’ve missed your appointment with Lord Ashworth. He waited near an hour before taking his leave.”

Reynolds blinked, as though returning from a distant country. “Lord Ashworth? Was that today?”

“Indeed, sir. He was most particular about discussing the commission for his daughter’s portrait.”

The painter’s hand moved instinctively to his pocket watch, though James noticed he made no move to consult it. Time, it seemed, held little meaning within these walls when the work demanded attention.

“Send word that I shall call upon him tomorrow,” Reynolds said, already turning back to his canvas. “The light will be gone soon, and Lady Montagu’s sleeve requires my immediate attention.”

The housekeeper withdrew with a knowing shake of her head, leaving master and apprentice alone with their shared obsession. James returned to his pigments, but found his awareness heightened by the exchange. How many hours had passed since he had begun grinding the lapis lazuli? The powder had long since achieved the perfect consistency, yet he continued working, driven by some inner compulsion that defied rational explanation.

The afternoon light continued its inexorable journey across the studio, painting new patterns of shadow and illumination with each passing moment. James watched, fascinated, as the changing light transformed Reynolds’ portrait, revealing new subtleties in Lady Montagu’s expression, new depths in the folds of her silk gown.

“Do you see it, James?” Reynolds asked suddenly, his voice thick with concentration. “The way the light catches the jewellery at her throat? It’s not merely reflection—it’s captured fire, frozen in time.”

James moved closer to observe, and gasped at what he witnessed. The tiny diamonds seemed to pulse with inner light, each facet rendered with such precision that they appeared to breathe upon the canvas. It was more than painting; it was alchemy, the transformation of base materials into something transcendent.

“How do you achieve such effects, Sir Joshua?” James asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Time,” Reynolds replied simply. “Time, and the willingness to lose oneself completely in the pursuit of truth. One cannot capture life whilst remaining bound by the constraints of ordinary existence.”

The words struck James with unexpected force. Here was the secret he had been seeking, the key to understanding his master’s extraordinary abilities. It was not merely talent or training, though both were essential. It was the capacity to surrender completely to the work, to allow time itself to become malleable in service of artistic vision.

As if to demonstrate the principle, Reynolds began working on the portrait’s background, his brush moving with fluid grace across the canvas. James watched, mesmerised, as vague shapes coalesced into the suggestion of a garden, complete with roses and classical columns. The painter worked with such intensity that he seemed to forget his apprentice’s presence entirely, becoming one with the creative process.

The church bells chimed again, though James could not say whether it was three o’clock or five. Time had become elastic, stretching and compressing in response to the rhythms of artistic creation. He found himself drawn back to his own work, mixing colours with newfound purpose, each shade a small act of devotion to the greater artistic vision.

The studio grew dimmer as clouds gathered outside, yet neither master nor apprentice made any move to light the lamps. They worked in the gathering twilight, their movements guided by instinct and long practice. The portrait of Lady Montagu continued to evolve, each brushstroke adding new layers of meaning and beauty.

It was only when the housekeeper returned with a lighted taper that James realised how completely the day had escaped them. The woman moved about the studio with practised efficiency, lighting the oil lamps and setting fresh candles in their holders. The warm glow revealed the full extent of the day’s work, and James marvelled at how much had been accomplished whilst time seemed to stand still.

Reynolds finally set down his brush and stepped back from the easel, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. “She lives,” he said simply, and James could see that it was true. Lady Montagu gazed out from the canvas with eyes that seemed to hold secrets, her smile suggesting depths of character that transcended mere physical beauty.

“What hour is it?” James asked, suddenly aware of hunger and fatigue.

“Past seven, I should think,” Reynolds replied, consulting his pocket watch at last. “We have worked through the afternoon entire, yet it feels as though mere minutes have passed.”

James nodded, understanding flooding through him. This was what it meant to lose track of time—not mere carelessness or inattention, but the complete absorption in meaningful work that rendered temporal concerns irrelevant. He had experienced something precious, a glimpse into the heart of artistic creation that would remain with him always.

As they cleaned their brushes and prepared to close the studio for the night, James reflected on the day’s lessons. He had learned more than techniques for mixing pigments or capturing light; he had discovered that time itself could be transformed through passionate dedication to one’s craft. In losing track of the hours, he had found something far more valuable—a deeper understanding of what it meant to be truly alive in the service of beauty and truth.

The portrait of Lady Montagu would hang in the family’s ancestral hall for generations to come, a testament to the power of artistic vision. But for James, the true masterpiece was the day itself—those precious hours when time became servant rather than master, when the pursuit of perfection transformed ordinary moments into something eternal.

The End

16th July 1769, the day Sir Joshua Reynolds laboured in his Leicester Fields studio, fell barely seven months after he had been elected the inaugural President of the newly formed Royal Academy of Arts (established 10 December 1768 with 36 founding members). That summer, the Academy’s first public exhibition—precursor to today’s Summer Exhibition—drew an estimated 60,000 visitors in just six weeks, charging one shilling each and signalling a shift toward wider, ticket-paying audiences for fine art in Britain. Within a decade, annual exhibitions travelled to provincial cities, inspiring similar institutions from Dublin to Philadelphia and helping professionalise art education through the Academy Schools, which trained more than 1,500 students before 1850. This formal recognition of artists as a learned profession laid the groundwork for modern public galleries and state-supported arts programmes that continue to shape cultural policy today.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.