How Are the Mighty Fallen

n                         I would bet £10 that you couldn’t name the richest, mostnfamous painter of the mid-19^th century. And another £10 that younhaven’t seen any of his works. Let’s return to panoramas, which I touched onnhere. 

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nWhen Daniel Banvard, a building contractor from New York, suffered anstroke, his ‘indiscrete’ business partner ran off with the company assets.nDaniel died shortly afterwards, leaving his family bankrupt and homeless. Hisnfifteen-year-old son, John, left for Kentucky, finding work where he could andnbarely surviving. He painted scenery for a travelling theatre company on anshowboat, sold some panoramic paintings and got by as an itinerant dry-goodsntrader. John worked his way to the Mississippi river, where he invested whatnlittle money he had on a small skiff and began his ambition to paint a grandnpanorama of the river. Over the next two years he worked on his painting andnhawked whatever would sell up and down the river to fund himself. He devised,nand patented, a tracked system of grommets that kept his painting from sagging,nand eventually, in June 1846, he was ready to display his magnificent,ncompleted panorama. He rented a hall in Louisville, advertised in the localnnewspaper, and prepared his entertainment. On his opening night, no one came.

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n Banvard handed out free tickets to the river-boat crews, on the understandingnthat they recommended his performance to their passengers. Slowly, word begannto spread and audiences began to swell. He added more sections to the paintingnand embellished his narrative, telling tall tales of brigands, shipwrecks andnpirates, extending the whole show to over two hours. The fifty cents per headnentry money began to pour in, and John moved his ‘Three Mile Painting’ to thenbig city, opening in Boston’s Armory Hall with creative lighting, pianonaccompaniment and a hidden crank mechanism. It was an immediate success. In thennext few months over a quarter of a million people came to the performance,nincluding state representatives, politicians and Boston’s intellectual elite. Banvardnwrote a book and published sheet music of his Mississippi waltzes, adding tonhis fortune. 

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nWith over $100,000 in profits, the show moved on to New York andngreater acclaim and riches. In 1848, Banvard headed for Europe, travellingnacross England before opening at London’s Egyptian Hall. In the next twentynmonths over 600,000 people saw the ‘Three Mile Painting’, including a commandnperformance at Windsor Castle for Queen Victoria and her court. Banvard wentnback to the studio, painted another version of the Mississippi, contracted outnhis London show, and went on tour with his new painting. In 1852, he returnednto America, with an enormous fortune. He bought a 60-acre plot on Long Islandnand began to build a replica of Windsor Castle there, which he called Glenada,nafter his daughter Ada, and which locals called ‘Banvard’s Folly’. 

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nThe castlenhoused Banvard’s growing collection of antiquities and curiosities, and Banvardnused his phenomenal wealth to build a museum in Manhattan, a colossalnforty-thousand-square-foot building, in direct competition to P T Barnham’snnearby museum. Unfortunately, Banvard did not register his business or stocksnwith New York state, and the share certificates he issued to pay contractorsnand investors were worthless. Barnham was far too shrewd a showman for Banvardnto cross, and he out-did Banvard at every turn. In a mere ten weeks Banvard’snmuseum was forced to close – he tried to reopen it as an opera house, but thendamage had been done. Banvard had outstretched himself, his attempts withnplays, concerts and entertainments all failed, and his quickly-made millionsnbegan to disappear just as quickly. His reputation had been irreparably damagednwith the share certificate debacle, no one would invest or back his ventures,nand pursued by creditors, Banvard descended into penury. He tried to write hisnway out of his difficulties, but when his works were exposed as plagarism hisnreputation fell further. He moved to Watertown, now in South Dakota, lodgingnwith his wife in his son’s back room. He tried again with panoramas, but thennovelty of them had passed, and the frontier towns did not have sufficientnpopulation to justify showing them. The richest, most famous artist of thenmid-19^th century died penniless in 1891. His works were lost – somenin shipwrecks and fires, some cut into sections for theatrical backdrops, whichneventually wore out through constant touring, and some, it is rumoured,nshredded for insulation in the walls of Watertown’s buildings. A few smallnpanels remain, in minor American galleries, but that is all.

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nBanvard’s story features in Paul Collin’s wonderful booknBanvard’s Folly. A recommended read.

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