DECLARATIONS
No. 63 (Spring 2026)
Table of Contents
Declarations of Expression: The Art of the Face
Katie Jaede
Assistant Director of Development
Do declarations have to be written or spoken? I refer to the ways individuals communicate meaning, identity, and emotion through embodied, visual, or performative acts—not solely through written or spoken words. In this sense, expression itself becomes a form of declaration, capable of conveying intent and shaping interpretation. I recently viewed the papers of Elizabeth Whipps, a famed facial contortionist (a professional maker of funny faces) from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Her expressive face was pictured in newspapers, showing her talents through photos of the many and varied expressions that Elizabeth, or Bessie, as she was known, could perform. Her repertoire of facial expressions as a performance act enthralled me, and I argue that they are indeed a type of declaration.
A common theme I found throughout Bessie’s news articles, letters, and advertisements for performances was the constant mention of her looks. She was described in headlines as “the most remarkable face in America” and as requiring much less makeup than other performers due to her skills as a facial contortionist. Of course, her talent for facial manipulation was also discussed, even described as “the most extraordinary that I have seen.” However, alongside the accounts of these talents, there was almost always a mention of her good looks. As a modern reader, I hear this echoed today in the common tropes of beauty women face today, and that same scrutiny of how beauty was and is expressed. Bessie’s declarations of facial expression were celebrated by the press and critics while they also made obligatory mention of her beauty, an assigned feminine trait that women then faced and still grapple with today.
While the press expressed admiration for Bessie’s talents for facial contortion, there was hardly any commentary on her talent that didn’t also use words meant to evoke thoughts of abnormality, ugliness, and a glaring departure from contemporary standards of beauty.
The “Gibson Girl” was the dominant vision of women’s beauty from the 1890s to World War I. Named after Charles Dana Gibson, the illustrator who made the look famous, the Gibson Girl projected ideals of classical beauty in her facial features, a calm and demure expression, a long, slender neck, and a pompadour-like swept up hairstyle. This is the sort of portrayal of beauty against which Bessie would have been constantly measured when performing her facial “tricks.” Unlike the statuesque, serene demeanor of the Gibson Girl, Bessie’s expressions were described as “deliciously grotesque,” “horrifying,” and “absolutely ridiculous.” There was very much an air of lurid curiosity in the descriptions of her facial expressions, which she honed to perfection over many years. She spoke with pride in many publications about how each of her expressions had a personality and a name attached to it. But such individuality seems somewhat secondary in descriptions of Bessie’s performances in publications from the period. Described in that same manner of oddity and curiosity, the Saturday Standard called her talents “facial contortions said to scare small children into fits.”
Elizabeth Whipps demonstrates her talents by creating a range of striking facial expressions in these images from her scrapbook. Although classically trained at the New England Conservatory of Music, it was ‘Bessie’s’ extraordinary facial contortions that made her famous as a performance artist.
Yet when we look today at photos of Miss Whipps performing her facial tricks, fear is not the first thing that comes to mind, but rather a feeling of silliness and playfulness. The common parental warning about one’s face “getting stuck like that” was similarly applied to Bessie. These negative references speak to how women’s expressions and beauty were critically assessed at the turn of the century.
While her abilities as a performer were celebrated for their abnormality, she was still measured in part by her physical appearance, and was described as “remarkably pretty,” “a pretty and talented young girl,” and “the pretty girl of many faces.” The press celebrated her talent but in the same breath emphasized her physical beauty. Her appearance is even described as “sweet, fascinating, and demure.” “Sweet” and “demure” are well in line with the praised attributes of a woman at that time. So, even as her “extraordinary” talent was celebrated, she was still being critically assessed for her looks—as if it would be abhorrent for a woman to make such “grotesque” facial features if she weren’t also a beauty.
Bessie’s extraordinary and quirky talent was not only measured against her physical appearance but also against male performers of the era. Her origin story revolves around the actor Benoît-Constant Coquelin recognizing her talents when she was still an unknown and repeatedly attempting, unsuccessfully, to recruit her to join his performance company in Europe. Despite the acclaim she earned under her own name, she was sometimes billed as “The Female Marshall P. Wilder,” a reference to the contemporary actor, monologist, humorist, and sketch artist, implying that, to be considered a worthy performer, her talent had to be compared to a man’s. Her ability to manipulate her face was even compared to the writing of Charles Dickens—a compliment, to be sure, but one that failed to recognize her skills as singularly impressive without comparison to a male celebrity.
Bessie’s declarations of facial expression were celebrated by the press and critics while they also made obligatory mention of her beauty, an assigned feminine trait that women then faced and still grapple with today.
It should be mentioned that women also praised Miss Whipps’ talents. Notably, the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt was mentioned in press releases as admiring Bessie’s work and striving to recruit Bessie into her theater company, which was then touring Europe. Because Bernhardt was working in partnership with Coquelin, her opinion was often presented alongside his, instead of what it may have been: an individual expression of admiration for a fellow female performer. It is also noteworthy that Bessie had fans among the literary women of the time, who were said to be fascinated with her ability to interpret parts in short stories and plays. Bessie was not only a facial contortionist, but she and her “marvelous face” graduated from the New England Conservatory of Music in 1898. She was no mere obscure oddity, but a welltrained performer whose other talents on the stage were sometimes overshadowed by her “acrobatic countenance” and “amusing grimaces.”
Four women who characterize the style of the Gibson Girl, with their coiffed hair and delicately feminine features, examine a tiny man under a microscope.
In considering the life and reception of Elizabeth Whipps, we are left with a striking example of how declarations of expression are never made in isolation, but rather are interpreted, reshaped, and at times constrained by the cultural expectations surrounding them. Bessie’s face—elastic, inventive, and wholly her own—became both her medium and her message, a living declaration that defied the fixed ideals of beauty and femininity of her era. Yet, as the collection of papers about her career at the Clements shows, even her most original expressions were filtered through a lens that sought to categorize, compare, and contain them. To revisit her story now is to recognize not only the remarkable individuality of her performances, but also the enduring tension between self-expression and societal interpretation. In this way, Bessie’s many faces continue to speak, inviting us to consider whose declarations are celebrated as art and whose are diminished as novelty, and how we might more fully honor expression in all its forms.