Reviewed by: Moved by Love: Inspired Artists and Deviant Women in Eighteenth-Century France Philip Stewart Moved by Love: Inspired Artists and Deviant Women in Eighteenth-Century France. By Mary D. Sheriff. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004. Pp. xiv + 303. $35.00. This book is not exactly a history of art, though it deals extensively with art. In line with Mary Sheriff's earlier books, which cover, among other things, art and eroticism, it is a rich reflection on the variations of female representation in art and literature in the eighteenth century. In a world where, up to a point, inspired women artists are inherently anomalous, she is particularly interested in those who call attention to themselves, or brave particularly long odds, or both. [End Page 545] The "deviant women" in the book's title become so by virtue of love, passion, enthusiasm, and imagination, terms that themselves, in their various interlacings, are explored in the first chapter. The book begins with women reading—an already well-known theme in both literature and art, accompanied in this discussion by varied examples that make for interesting new rapprochements. Subsequently, it discusses various Furies and Pythia figures, with a focus on some of the principal emblems in the eighteenth century: Sappho, Galatea, and finally Heloise. These female figures are symbols of defiance, of the refusal to conform to the usual prescriptions for women to be sensitive but passive. They are women who "know too much," especially about matters sexual; they exhibit not only passion but independence and sensuality (nymphomania is one of the "deviant" themes). Sheriff shows that against the traditional feminine stereotype there exists a countertradition of nonconformity in various strengths and guises, one that represents both feminine (and feminist) potential and a potential feminine threat. I would call this a loosely structured argument rather than a tight one, but I do not mean that as a flaw. While all the themes are related, it is not in any obligatory relationship. It is the loose construction that allows them to be woven together in flexible configurations. In a way, the most sustaining quality of the book is the constant interplay of different discourses and media. The two chapters on Pygmalion are like a book apart, a grand tour of the uses of Pygmalion, or, more precisely, of Galatea, as emblems of enthusiasm, life-giving force, and independence spontaneously assumed by what was supposed to be a fully dependent creation. What happens when the (male) artist (or male imagination in general) gets just what he bargained for, or more? The paintings and engravings discussed and compared are fascinating. Though not everything could be included, to be sure, it is still a bit of a shame to leave out the Boucher engraving (for the Banier translation of Ovid, 1767–71) and especially the large, elegant plate of Pygmalion after Lagrenée (engraved by Dennel). There are a few points that are hard to understand fully. In a description of an array of feminine allegories decorating a room at Versailles we read: "In the corners of the room, four large, muscular male figures stand as allegories for vigilance, immortality, trade, and diligence" (68). On the surface this would seem unusual: we need to know the French equivalents of these four terms and if there are labels present that somehow indicate the specific values "vigilance, immortality, trade, and diligence," most of which one would expect to be feminine. Indeed, I would have wished for more treatment of the matter of allegorical gendering, in part to clarify the distinction between obligatory and optional traits. There are occasional loose ends of this sort that leave this reader desiring to know more. For instance, an allusion to Vigée-Lebrun depicting herself as "Rubens' beloved" and as Raphaël's Fornarina (74) is nowhere explained. [End Page 546] I wonder too—a comment hardly limited to this book—whether more scepticism might at times have been brought to bear on the titles of works of art. Many of these come down not from the artist but from some owner or curator; often they have been inferred from the paintings themselves and then, ingenuously recycled, come via a...