Boston-born Hazel ascended from her Irish roots to become the quintessential Society Queen of Chicago, and later London, where she lived a delicate dance between two worlds: one with her esteemed husband, Sir John Lavery, a portrait artist to royalty, and the other with Michael Collins, the daring Irish rebel whose fiery spirit ignited her heart. Together, they formed a love triangle that echoed through the corridors of power at 10 Downing Street, London.
Hazel's wit and charm touched on the lives of the who's-who of England including Winston Churchill, George Bernard Shaw and Evelyn Waugh. The image of her memorable face graced the Irish note for close to half-a-century.
The next afternoon John was painting a Lady Somebody-or-another who wanted her portrait to hang beside a Gainsborough in her husband’s ancestral hall. On the final day of the finished portrait, the Lady arrived with her husband who examined the portrait closely. His eyes roamed the canvas beginning at the head, then with his hand he traveled downward across the painting.
The husband finally spoke, “I pass the forehead and the eyes.”
“Very good,” said John, nodding.
“I pass the nose, the mouth, and the chin.”
“Excellent!” said John.
But then the man roamed his hands lower over the painting around his wife’s throat until he came upon her chest. “What is this flat-chested modernity that I see?”
“Pardon?” asked John.
“Where is the snowy amplitude of Her Ladyship?”
The man’s wife interjected. “I will not have an eighth of an inch added! I refuse!”
On cue I walked into the studio to interrupt, moving toward the painting but not before making eye contact with the husband. “So sorry, I think it’s quite lovely. Just as is,” I said to the man. “It captures her stunning beauty, her adoration of the man she’s gifted the painting to... you.” I let loose a big toothy smile and he smiled back.
“Well, if Lady Lavery thinks it’s fine...”
“I do... think it’s fine,” I said. “More than fine.” And I moved toward the wife. “Look at how beautiful she is and look how beautifully John has captured her… ah, sexuality ever so discreetly.”
“Yes,” said the man, inspecting the painting again. “By George, I think she’s right!”
And at that, everyone shook hands, and the deal was done. Off went the painting and the couple.
Left alone with John, I cornered him. “Sit, love, here.” And I pointed to the two chairs.
“Yes, my love,” said John, his tone suggesting he knew something was coming.
“It was lovely of you to paint Sir James Barrie last week. And it was so darling of him to gift me an autographed copy of his most treasured Peter Pan...”
“Yes, Hazel,” said John, wondering where this was all going.
“And I love when Sir Barrie dines with us. He’s always such a fan of my duck sauce.”
“Undoubtedly your biggest fan. Most certainly in the top ten of male admirers.”
“Right,” I said. “And I adore him.” I paused for effect, moving forward, and taking John’s hand in mine, the sun streaming through on various canvases and catching my expression just so.
“And he so loved when you did that portrait of him as a favor to me... the one where you made him pose as if working on that wooden bench, with the bench in semi darkness to camouflage his height. Would you say he’s about five feet?”
“Five foot, yes, dear,” assured John.
“And when I suggested we might donate the painting to the National Gallery of Scotland, well, he was thrilled and...”
“Hazel. What is the point?”
“The point is Mr. Barrie would love to meet Mr. Collins.”
“Mr. Collins?!” questioned John with sarcasm in his tone. “Is that what we’re calling that Renegade these days, Mr. Collins?”
“Well, it is his name,” I said, with sarcasm. John said nothing, only huffing under his breath.
“Oh, Johnnie,” I begged, “please paint Michael Collins and the others from Ireland.” John eyed me up and down, the look on my pleading face not budging. “Just for historical reasons.”
“It would be fine, my love, except I have so many commissions lined up. And now I’m training Winston to paint, good God. Now they’re calling him my pupil.”
“Which, of course, is highly flattering,” I interrupted. “But you know it was me who taught him to paint. It’s how he got the bug to be an artist.”
“Yes, you certainly did,” said John. “And how you ever convinced him to paint a still life of an empty bottle of spirits and a crystal bowl of fruit...”
“Well, he was a lovely student,” I said.
“Oh, Poppet,” sighed John, using his pet name for me, then pulling back his hand from mine he
rested it in his lap with a deep sigh. “Darling, I just don’t know that I have the time...”
“Yes, but time does not count where a masterpiece is at stake,” I said, scanning his many portraits. “So, you will, won’t you Johnnie? Won’t you...”
