The sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen (1770-1844) grew up in Copenhagen in poor circumstances. He was admitted to the Royal Academy of Fine Arts at a young age and travelled to the cultural centre of the age, Rome, where he carved out a career for himself as an international artist. He returned to the city of his birth as a world-famous superstar who had created works of art for the Pope, Napoleon and the royal families of Europe.
Thorvaldsen was born in Copenhagen on 19 November 1770. His father had immigrated from Iceland, and made his living as a carver of ship decorations in wood. His mother was the daughter of a parish clerk near Lemvig in Jutland. The young Bertel was admitted to the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Copenhagen at the early age of 11, where he quickly showed unusually great talent.
After he had completed his education a scholarship enabled him to study further in Italy. His study period in Rome became his working life. The order book filled up, and soon he was one of Europe’s best known artists. He spent a good forty years in Rome – no wonder he celebrated the date of his arrival in the city, 8 March 1797, as his ‘Roman birthday’!
Not until 1838 did Thorvaldsen return to Denmark.
After coming home he became the first – and to this day remains the only – person to be granted ‘freedom of the city of Copenhagen’. On 24 March 1844 Bertel Thorvaldsen died 73 years old, struck down by heart failure as he attended the overture of the evening’s performance at the Royal Danish Theatre. His coffin was placed in a chapel in the Church of Our Lady, and on 6 September 1848 it was transferred to the burial chamber in the courtyard of Thorvaldsens Museum shortly before the museum opened on 18 September 1848, so that the sculptor could rest eternally surrounded by his art.
Allegory of the Arts (1740) by Pompeo Girolamo Batoni (Italian, 1708 – 1787), oil on canvas, 175.4 cm (69 in) x 138 cm (54.3 in), Städelsches Kunstinstitut und Städtische Galerie, Frankfurt
The drawing shows two figures: one with a Sun-head riding a lion (Sulfur/King) and another riding a griffin (Mercury/Queen). They are engaged in a symbolic struggle or "dialectic" that leads to their eventual union.
Alchemical and rosicrucian compendium, ca. 1760
“The factors which come together in the coniunctio are conceived as opposites, either confronting one another in enmity or attracting one another in love.”
The Extraordinary Beauty of Alexander Hamilton — an imperfect analysis (/ref).
If there’s one thing that’s been reliably fascinating me about Alexander Hamilton, it would be his looks. His appearance was remarked upon extensively by contemporaries, often in ways that suggest something beyond ordinary attractiveness. Even now, over two centuries later, Hamilton continues to be considered handsome in a way that seems almost anachronistic compared to many of his peers, whose visages read as “Founding Father rugged” rather than conventionally attractive by modern standards.
The usual narrative with “handsome” men of the past is that beauty standards shifted so dramatically that what was swoon-worthy in 1790 is often “eh” (or outright ugly) to modern eyes. Look at most of the portraits of Washington, Adams, even Jefferson. However important they were, modern audiences don’t usually go “wow, he’s attractive.” They look dated, powdered, wigged, stern.
So how come Hamilton dodges that uncanny valley?
The earliest sources on Hamilton’s appearance emphasize features aligned with very classical ideals of symmetry and proportion. An eyewitness in 1795 described Hamilton as “under middle size, thin in person, but remarkably erect and dignified,” noting an “exceedingly fair” complexion and an “almost feminine rosiness” of cheek, concluding that he had an “uncommonly handsome face.” Another early biographer observed that Hamilton inherited his fair hair (typically, if now always, described as red) and blue eyes from his Scottish father, rather than his French mother. His blue eyes were, by some, even described as a beautiful violet. Hamilton himself referenced his prominent nose humorously in correspondence, acknowledging the feature that would later become iconic in portraits and sculptures.
Portraiture and sculpture of the period further reinforced these accounts. Giuseppe Ceracchi’s 1794 marble bust, in particular, depicts Hamilton in the style of a neoclassical Roman statesman, with a straight Roman nose, a strong jawline, and a slight, controlled smile. John Trumbull’s 1804/05 painting, based on this bust, became the canonical representation of Hamilton, subsequently influencing the redesign of the $10 bill.
Contemporary observers generally concurred with this representation, and as Henry Cabot Lodge later summarized, Hamilton “was evidently very attractive, and must have possessed a great charm of manners.”
Even John Adams, who hated him, couldn’t resist making it about appearance. He mocked Hamilton as a “coxcomb,” effeminate, vain about his looks and style. You can feel the envy dripping through the insult, and he is essentially saying: “he is too pretty, and too proud of being pretty.” It’s a criticism that only works if his beauty was so obvious you couldn’t ignore it. Even in mockery, the implication is that Hamilton’s looks commanded attention, drew envy, and could not be dismissed too easily.
Why does Hamilton’s beauty appear so “unnatural,” then?
To put it plainly: the racial and ethnic makeup of colonial New York.
Hamilton was a first-generation immigrant from the Caribbean, with a Scottish father and French Huguenot mother. His features may have combined traits uncommon among the mostly Anglo-Protestant elite of New York City, creating an exoticized effect. Combined with his fair skin and aristocratic coloring, this may have produced a kind of visual tension: familiar yet strikingly different, making his attractiveness appear heightened.
I do believe Hamilton’s beauty was “unnatural” in two senses, the second being the behavioral component. Hamilton’s carriage, his upright, almost militaristic bearing, and the precision of his style must have amplified what would otherwise be ordinary attractive features. Vanity was an insult often hurled at him by contemporaries like Adams, but that “vanity” was inseparable from the way he held himself. The body, in Hamilton’s case, enhanced the face. His beauty was therefore partly genetic, partly performative, and that mix made it “unnatural” in its persistence and in its intensity.
There’s also the dimension of charisma and perception. Hamilton was widely described as charming, persuasive, and magnetic in both manner and speech. That sort of behavioral charisma interacts with physical features to create an overall impression of handsomeness. In other words, part of why he’s still considered attractive today may be due to the stories we’ve inherited about him. The anecdotes of his affection toward Laurens, the careful observation of his posture and gestures, and the almost obsessive attention given to his busts all contribute to a halo effect.
Some modern historians have attempted more sensational interpretations. For example, J. Michael Mahoney suggested that Hamilton’s duel behavior with Aaron Burr contained a “passive, feminine homosexual undertone,” as he was supposedly unconsciously attracted to Aaron Burr, submitting to him by death. Shipping culture put aside, these psychoanalytic readings are, to me, a misfire, because they misread the historical context of male intimacy, dueling culture, and political rivalry. But what these readings inadvertently underline is that Hamilton’s appearance and demeanor were out of the ordinary enough to invite projection. If his attractiveness and his intensity can provoke such extreme speculation about sexuality or psychological makeup, that only reinforces the idea that he was visually and socially exceptional.
If you want to understand how Hamilton’s presence lingered even after his death, you have to look no further than the aforementioned Ceracchi’s 1794 marble bust.
This single artifact became, for many contemporaries, the most immediate and striking representation of Hamilton, and it was through this likeness that the posthumous fascination with his appearance reached its peak. Following his death in 1804, this object became almost magical in the eyes of those who had known him, or even those who had only known of him through reputation.
Elizabeth Hamilton, his widow, repeatedly paused before it in her home, “leaning on her cane, gazing and gazing, as if she could never be satisfied.” Even Thomas Jefferson displayed a Ceracchi bust of Hamilton opposite one of himself in his entrance hall, commenting on how visitors’ eyes “settled with a deeper interest” on the two figures. Jefferson and Hamilton were political rivals, yet Jefferson recognized that the bust’s effect on viewers was compelling enough to merit deliberate placement.
Aaron Burr’s interactions with the bust are perhaps the most revealing of all. Decades after the duel that ended Hamilton’s life, Burr toured the Boston Athenaeum with Wendell Phillips in 1836. Upon encountering the Ceracchi bust, Burr paused thoughtfully and remarked, “A remarkable man—a very remarkable man.” On other occasions, he traced the creases of Hamilton’s face on painted or sculpted likenesses and wryly commented, “There was the poetry.” Burr’s fascination may have been partly personal, partly aesthetic: he could neither fully admire nor dismiss the form of a man who had been both his political adversary and the central figure in the most intimate drama of his adult life.
The obsession with the bust likely comes from the way Ceracchi’s neoclassical aesthetic made Hamilton heroic, but also how it made him emotionally accessible. The slight smile, the poise of the head and the defined features were elements that viewers could project upon. People could see in the bust the Hamilton they remembered, the Hamilton they wanted to remember, or the Hamilton they imagined should exist.
Although this is already a commonly known fact, I do nonetheless still wish to mention: the $10 bill, featuring the face of Hamilton, is unique in that it is the only denomination in circulation in which the portrait faces to the left!
The fact that Hamilton continues to captivate modern imagination speaks to an almost unnatural persistence of allure. While other founders’ appearances have softened, aged, or lost their charm in public memory, Hamilton’s remains vibrant and aesthetically compelling in modern perception.
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