Gustav Klimt’s Poignant, Prophetic ‘Portrait of Amalie Zuckerkandl’
Left unfinished upon the artist’s death in 1918, the painting is a window into his technique, a captivating rendering of a woman’s face, and, in its incompleteness, a haunting symbol of its subject’s fate.
As visitors ascend the stairs of Vienna’s Upper Belvedere Palace, a collection of Gustav Klimt’s most famous paintings awaits them. Crowds flock to works from his “golden phase,” straining their arms for pictures of “The Kiss” (1908, completed 1909) or “Judith” (1901)—his pivotal, sensual works embellished in gold leaf. One section of the exhibit is dedicated to his feminine portraiture, a tall sign declaring him a “painter of women.” It is there that visitors stumble upon an outlier: the artist’s “Portrait of Amalie Zuckerkandl” (1917-18).
Klimt (1862-1918) made his fortune as a portraitist, draping bourgeois women in textured fabrics and jewel-like ornaments. In 1913 or 14, he was commissioned to paint Zuckerkandl (1869-1944), the daughter of Viennese playwright Sigmund Schlesinger, but their portrait sessions were short-lived. With the outbreak of World War I, Zuckerkandl left Vienna to work as a nurse in Lviv. And there were no more sessions before Klimt died in 1918 after contracting pneumonia following a stroke.
Left unfinished in the wake of his death, Zuckerkandl’s portrait is frozen in time. The artist’s technique is embedded in the portrait’s incompleteness—the subject is painted but her dress and arms are still being sketched in. The pencil markings remain clear, denoting where Klimt would undoubtedly have added intricate texture and pattern. In the absence of a detailed dress, we are drawn in by the subject’s facial features—the only ones rendered in full.
Zuckerkandl’s eyes forge a distinct emotional bond with the viewer as she gazes in perpetual wonder. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted—perhaps on the brink of uttering a thought. Her soft, contemplative countenance contrasts with her black lace collar and dark, messy hair—their harsh quality lending a brightness to her face.
Klimt’s sketching keeps Zuckerkandl forever in motion. The penciling of her arms lends life and movement to them, leaving viewers uncertain of where they truly land. Does her hand rest upon her lap or the arm of a chair? Within the ruffles of her dress, the burgeoning design invites us to imagine Zuckerkandl in our own way.
The manner in which the dress hangs is also intriguing. At a glance, Zuckerkandl’s bare shoulders may seem to emerge from her beige costume. But the volume and style of the dress also blanket her—forever obscuring Zuckerkandl from our full perception. Her state of being simultaneously veiled and unveiled is augmented by the vibrant greens, blues and yellows surrounding her. Zuckerkandl becomes almost regal, as if beneath the skirt of her dress she sits atop a velvet throne.
It is this stature that gives the painting the illusion of completeness, Zuckerkandl’s confidence intensifying Klimt’s artistic choices. Despite being so clearly unfinished, the portrait still manages to portray the essence of the sitter: a true testament to the artist.
While Klimt’s portrayal of Zuckerkandl is one of a kind in its own right, it is transformed by her history. Over 20 years after Klimt’s death, Zuckerkandl—who had converted to Judaism to marry her husband—was arrested by the Nazis under the Nuremberg Laws. In 1942, she was deported to Bełžec concentration camp in Poland, where she was murdered.
Her unfinished portrait thus becomes a tragic prophecy of her own life, which, like the painting, was cut off far too early. Zuckerkandl’s movement, her thoughts, her expression, are forever preserved in a moment before the inconceivable tragedy that redefined her legacy. As Zuckerkandl’s eyes connect with our own, we have a singular opportunity to engage with her, and even grieve her. While her story is one of millions, it is also starkly individual—a reality Klimt brings into focus through the lively flush of her cheeks, the raising of an eyebrow.
Objects, particularly artworks, have complex emotional power entangled in their history. Zuckerkandl’s portrait is no exception. What was simply another commission for Klimt is transformed by time and place. As Belvedere visitors stop to admire Klimt’s pencil work among his finished paintings, Zuckerkandl’s absorbing gaze compels them. A glance at the placard at her side and she is suddenly revealed in full: her life, her tragedy. The beauty of Klimt’s craftsmanship becomes somehow more staggering, poignantly juxtaposed with a brutal history.