One room, one artwork, one light. Each article starts from a real wall and ends on the painting that fits it, with its size and its price.
Some paintings decorate, others watch. The portrait of Ira Aldridge painted by John Philip Simpson in 1827 belongs to the second kind, and that's exactly what earns it a place in a living room.
Mythological scenes have a reputation for being too much for a living room. That's true of the bad ones. The great ones, like Gustave Moreau's Hercules, do the exact opposite: they hold the wall and leave the room at peace.
It's the question we get asked most, always with the same worry: won't it clash? Here's the answer, with a 1631 Rembrandt on a whitewashed brick wall.
You pass through it for ten seconds a day and never sit down there. That's exactly why an entryway can carry the image a living room would refuse.
It's the only wall in the house you look at lying down, and the only one you never see in full. Two constraints that rule out half the images.
Moulded cornices, a marble mantel, herringbone parquet: the decor is already written. The question isn't what to add, it's where to put the one thing that's missing.
Brick is already a material, a color, and a rhythm. You don't hang on it the way you'd hang on a white wall, and half the images that work elsewhere disappear on it.
A landscape looks at nothing. A portrait does, and that changes everything about where you hang it.
A wide wall, low seating, plenty of light. The sofa wall gets it wrong more often than right, and it's almost always the same mistake.