'Dear Sir William'

Sir William Orpen (1878-1931) is undoubtedly one of the most important figures in the history of Irish art. Born in Stillorgan, Co. Dublin in 1878, he studied at the Dublin Metropolitan School of Art (where he would later teach) and at the Slade School of Fine Art in London, before embarking on a career as one of the foremost portraitists and society painters across Great Britain and Ireland in the early twentieth century. Though the artist’s work in the National Gallery of Ireland’s permanent collection showcases his extraordinary aptitude to transform mundane subject matter into works of a captivating and often powerful nature, it is the collection of his archives held in the Centre for the Study of Irish Art (CSIA) that uncovers aspects of his character that even the most self-revealing of his Rembrandtian self-portraits could not capture. One such aspect is how profoundly affected he was by his time spent in France during the First World War, where he served with the British Army as an official war artist.

Banner image: William Orpen and his driver Joshua in the artist's Rolls Royce, which he loaned to the British Red Cross during the First World War

William Orpen’s archive contains an extensive collection of material pertaining to his personal and professional life, ranging from correspondence and photographs, to sketchbooks and other memorabilia. The objects that offer perhaps the most fascinating insight into the painter’s personal life, however, are four scrapbooks compiled during the 1920s. In the earliest of these albums, a significant amount of the letters, newspaper clippings and photographs pasted throughout relate to a series of three pictures that the artist was commissioned to paint to commemorate the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, having only returned from the Western Front a year prior.

Commissioned by, and now held in the collection of the Imperial War Museums, A Peace Conference at the Quai d’Orsay and The Signing of Peace in the Hall of Mirrors, Versailles, 28th June 1919 are two of Orpen’s most significant post-war works. The final painting in the series, however, proved to be his most controversial. First exhibited at the Royal Academy in London in 1923, and later altered in 1928, To the Unknown British Soldier in France differs entirely from the composition of the first two, omitting the faces of the politicians, generals and admirals whose inclusion was requisite to the Museum’s original commission, and instead depicting a single coffin draped in the Union flag, set against the grandiose surroundings of Versailles’ interior, and symbolising the loss of the lives of men whose bodies lay in unmarked graves in France.

Prior to its modification by the artist some five years after its display at the Royal Academy, the composition originally included two emaciated British comrades standing on either side of the coffin, above whom were flying cherubs holding a wreath of victory. A desolate and grisly anti-war image, the picture’s first iteration caused a stir amongst critics. Indeed, some of the adverse commentary appears in newspaper reports pasted on to the pages of Orpen’s early scrapbook. In one example, Orpen’s work is described as ‘a problem picture’, whilst another critic writes that ‘If his intention was grim and serious, he has failed; if not, the picture is decidedly in bad taste’.

Most clippings, however, reflect the more favourable responses to the picture, and some report on the artist’s own defence of his work. Indeed, in an edition of The New York World, published on May 8, 1923, it was reported that ‘Though the painter’s reply to the amazement created by this production will not lessen the stormy discussion now raging’, the artist stated that ‘In spite of all those eminent men, I kept thinking of the soldiers who remain in France forever’. For Orpen, the Peace Conference, and the depiction of those statesmen present ‘seemed so unimportant, somehow, beside the reality as [he] had seen and felt it when working with the armies.’

It is perhaps unsurprising that the harrowing experiences endured by Orpen during his time spent on the front lines left him with a feeling of disillusionment towards the military leaders whom he was commissioned to portray. In fact, in his famous memoir An Onlooker in France, he writes of his time at the Conference that,

‘The fighting man, alive, and those who fought and died – all the people who made the Peace Conference possible – were being forgotten, the “frocks” reigned supreme. One was almost forced to think that the “frocks” won the war. “I did this,” “I did that,” they all screamed, but the silent soldier man never said a word, yet he must have thought a lot.’

Though Orpen’s steadfastness in the face of severe criticism is certainly laudable, perhaps this stance was made easier by the letters of support he received from war veterans and other members of the public following the unveiling of the picture at the Royal Academy. Indeed, rather extraordinarily, affixed amongst the responses and writings of critics, peers and newspaper editors throughout Orpen’s scrapbook, there are a number of letters written by people with whom the artist was not acquainted, but whose words were nevertheless deemed meaningful enough to warrant their safekeeping in a deeply personal repository of memorabilia and memory.

One anonymous note, for example, asks ‘May it not be that this sublime Creation would be more universally understood’, whilst another sent from King Edward VII’s Hospital for Officers reads, ‘[Today] I have seen your most wonderful Tribute to my dear comrades, and I find it impossible to express my admiration for you.’

Perhaps the most touching of these letters, however, was written by a woman named Gertrude Grigg, who describes herself as ‘just a little English mother whose only child lies in an unknown grave in France’. In a poignant, page-long correspondence, she explains that having seen To the Unknown British Soldier in France at the Royal Academy with her husband on the previous Saturday, she wished to thank Orpen ‘for placing in [his] beautiful picture instead of living men of renown, the simple parable of sacrifice.’ She concludes her letter with a forlorn yet gracious sentiment, writing that,

‘Sometimes, we who gave our loved ones in the Great War, wonder whether the peace was worth the terrible cost, folks forget so soon, [and] so we thank great men who with pen, or brush, endeavour to keep the memory of our dear dead lads’ supreme sacrifice in remembrance.’

How charming it is that amongst the souvenirs stuck to the pages of his scrapbooks, an artist of Orpen's stature would retain the simple, yet gracious words of a stranger. These words, written in a letter from the first of Orpen’s four scrapbooks, along with the correspondence, photographs, sketchbooks and other memorabilia that make up the collection of Sir William Orpen's archives are available to consult through our online collection, or by arranging a visit to our Reading Rooms by emailing library@ngi.ie.

Ruairí Sheanon, H.W. Wilson Foundation Fellow, July 2026