No other painting by Anthony van Dyck has sparked more debate over its sitter’s identity than Portrait of a woman playing the viola-da-gamba, formerly identified as Margaret Lemon. For centuries, viewers believed they were gazing at the famed mistress of Van Dyck, but recent scholarship has cast doubt on this romantic attribution. The mystery has only deepened as experts pore over the sitter’s features and the musical instrument she holds, searching for clues to her true identity.

This uncertainty has made the painting a touchstone for discussions about women musicians in 17th-century England and the ways in which artists and patrons shaped their public image. The woman sits poised at her viola da gamba, fingers lightly resting on the strings, her gaze turned outward as if interrupted mid-performance. The instrument itself, a symbol of refined accomplishment and courtly culture, dominates the lower half of the canvas, while her elegant attire and composed expression suggest both status and introspection. The play of light across her face and hands draws the viewer’s attention to her role as both musician and muse.

Unlike Johannes Vermeer’s The Music Lesson, where music is a metaphor for courtship, Van Dyck presents his subject as an artist in her own right, the music and the musician inseparable. The painting’s early history remains somewhat obscure, with no surviving records of its original commission or patron. Its misidentification as Margaret Lemon persisted well into the 20th century, a testament to the allure of linking great artists with their supposed muses. Over time, the portrait has passed through several private collections before entering the public domain, where it continues to intrigue both scholars and visitors.

Today, it stands as a testament to Van Dyck’s fascination with character and presence, as well as the enduring enigma of its sitter’s true story.