Portrait of a Man. Frans Hals , early 1650s: Photograph: The Metropolitan Museum of Art

'If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.'
Laozi, ancient Chinese philosopher

I recently attended an exhibition of portraits by 17th century Dutch painter Frans Hals. (‘Frans Hals: The Male Portrait’ is at the Wallace Collection, London until 30 January 2022.)

I confess I have had only a moderate opinion of Hals. My impressions were formed many years ago from seeing cheap reproductions of his most celebrated work, The Laughing Cavalier. I didn’t take to this fellow’s arrogant sideways stare, his absurd upturned moustache, his supercilious grin. And over the years, in various galleries across Europe, I’ve occasionally bumped into other smirking Hals portraits. They’ve served to confirm my reservations about the artist.

As we enter the exhibition The Laughing Cavalier regards us from the end of a long purple-walled room. The accompanying commentary points out that he is neither laughing, nor a cavalier. Rather he sports a knowing smile. And though we don’t know the sitter’s identity, his carefully groomed hair and fashionable attire suggest a wealthy young man, possibly a cloth merchant.

On closer inspection I found myself admiring the Cavalier’s dashing wide-brimmed hat and richly embroidered doublet - bees, arrows, flames and flowers painted in gold, red and yellow - slashed to reveal an immaculate white linen shirt. I liked the elegance of his soft, lace-trimmed ruff, tied with a black ribbon to match his substantial sash. I was even charmed by that glint in his eyes.

The Laughing Cavalier. Frans Hals (c.1581–1585–1666). The Wallace Collection

The gallery commentary tells us that such flamboyant outfits were de rigueur amongst the young bachelors of Haarlem, the town where Hals was based nearly his whole life. And there are a few other similarly confident, carefree, clean-shaven young men in the exhibition. But once married, the gentlemen of Haarlem would don more sombre apparel, in line with their Calvinist faith, and many of Hals’ sitters were Men in Black.

Such conformity may have represented a challenge for an ordinary portrait painter. But Hals managed to render this single colour in an infinite variety of tones, tints and textures. As Van Gogh later observed:

‘Frans Hals must have had twenty-seven shades of black.’

As we wander round the room we encounter a procession of Haarlem’s military men, councillors, drapers and brewers. The sitters look self-assured, poised, relaxed. Often they place an arm on one hip. Sometimes they regard us over the top of a chair. And despite their formal attire, their individuality shines through.

Tieleman Rossterman has flushed cheeks, a pointed beard and an upturned moustache. With his extravagant lace collar, cambric cuff and gold-trimmed leather glove, he exudes an aura of hard-earned status and authority. Pieter van den Broecke, a Dutch admiral with tousled hair and a weathered visage, sports a long gold chain over his shoulder and rests his gnarled hand on a baton of office. Further along there’s a dignified middle-aged man, whose tightly buttoned black jacket implies restraint. But coloured silks peer out from below and, together with his elegant white cuffs, suggest swagger beneath the surface.

As Hals aged, his brushwork became looser and more fluid, his colour palette more restrained. Critics at the time complained that his paintings looked unfinished. And some subsequently inferred that he had led a dissolute life. These same qualities later appealed to the Impressionists, and he was much admired by Manet and Van Gogh.

Pieter van den Broecke (1585–1640). Frans Hals (c.1581–1585–1666).Photo Credit: English Heritage, Kenwood

I walked away from the exhibition full of respect for Hals. He had ushered in a more natural style of portraiture. He had distilled real characters in oils, conveyed true personalities with vigour and vitality. His work was animated and immediate.

I reflected with some sadness that it’s not often that I change my mind. And rarer still that I admit it. As we age, our views calcify. We repeat the same familiar lines, recite the same righteous wisdoms - with tedious regularity and without giving them fresh thought. We become prisoners of our own opinions.

And yet when we change our minds we demonstrate that we are alert to new information and different circumstances; that we are learning and progressing; that we are alive. Perhaps I should do it more often.

'Progress is impossible without change; and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.'
George Bernard Shaw

'Sure I understand.
Of course, I'll be fine.
You had to change your plans.
Oh well, I'll just change mine.
But if it turns out bad,
And if your nights get long,
And if she makes you sad,
No need to be strong.
And if you ever change your mind,
And find you miss those feelings that you left behind,
We can give it one more try,
Some magic place in time,
If you ever change your mind.’

Crystal Gayle, ‘If You Ever Change Your Mind’ (P McGee, B Gundry)

No. 350