With Halloween approaching I thought I’d post some scary paintings, and then thought I’d post just two and turn the post into a little art quiz. Other than both being scary, and both featuring severed heads, can you spot the connection between them? And please try to answer without using an AI assistant or other form of cheating.
Picture number one, on the left, is The Severed Heads by Théodore Géricault (c. 1810, Oil on Canvas, 61cm x 50cm, National Museum in Stockholm). Picture number two, on the right, is Medusa by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio – Caravaggio to you – (c. 1597, Oil on Canvas, mounted on wood, 60 cm × 55 cm, Uffizi Gallery, Florence).
One of a series of 26 small canvasses called Group I. Primordial Chaos by Hilma af Klimt (1906-7, Oil on Canvas, 52.5×37 cm).
A major exhibition of works by Swedish artist Hilma af Klmit (1862-1944) will start in October (2026) and run until January (2027) at the National Gallery of Ireland.
Composition Derived from the Equationwith Green, Orange, Violet (Black) by Georges Vantongerloo (1930, Oil on Canvas, 119.4 x 68.2 cm, Guggenheim Museum, New York)
I leave it as an exercise to the reader to determine how this painting is derived from the stated equation.
Another warm day in London found us taking the shortish trip by Tube to Kew to see not only the magnificent botanical gardens but also the large collection of sculptures by Henry Moore dispersed throughout. Here are a few snaps I took on the way around. As you can see in the pictures, the gardens are looking a bit parched.
Cynara Cardunculus, in Kew Gardens, a large thistle plant which is very pollinator-friendly
It’s more than 30 years since I was last at Kew Gardens, so I didn’t remember the way round very well. We ended up spending about four hours there, including a stop for tea at the Orangery which, I’m delighted to say, was served properly, in a pot, with nice cups and saucers and milk in a little jug. The last time I saw works by Henry Moore in an outdoor setting was back in 2011; see this post.
Though not many people have gardens as extensive as Kew, they are very helpful in assisting domestic gardeners with hints and suggestions of things to plant in different spaces: dry, damp, sunlit, shady, you name it.
Anyway, it was a really lovely day for all kinds of reasons. I know it’s corny but I was reminded of that song by Lou Reed:
just a perfect day you make me forget myself I thought I was someone else someone good
After picking up his things from the hotel we went to Paddington where I saw my weekend companion onto the train for Heathrow. I’m a bit sad to be on my own again, but it won’t be long until the next time…and the next place.
Back to the hotel for a short siesta after spending most of the day at Tate Britain, where there is a special exhibition of works by and about James McNeill Whistler. The main collection at Tate Britain is free, but the Whistler exhibition costs £24 to see. It’s well worth it though.
The first picture shows Whistler’s famous portrait of his mother, who seems to be holding court. My favourite pieces, however, the Nocturnes, two of which I have mentioned on this blog before. There are three shown below, but photographs don’t do them justice at all. The appearance of the paint when seen close up is quite remarkable, a sort of translucent quality to it even when the picture is very dark. Whistler was one of the first artists to really master painting in the dark without using moonlight or other obvious illumination.
The last of these is particularly interesting to me. When the great American songwriter Billy Strayhorn saw the beautifully evocative painting (above) of one of the bridges over the River Thames, it inspired him to write an equally evocative song to be performed by his longstanding musical collaborator and friend Duke Ellington. The song was written in 1941, but it was only years later that he realized that he had named it after the wrong bridge. The painting was of Battersea Bridge; but he had named the song Chelsea Bridge, a much less romantic location. Chelsea Bridge is an intriguing tune, based on minor sixth chords voiced via their third inversions, it sounds almost atonal but very evocative, just like the painting.
In one of the video segments played during the exhibition we hear the actor Anton Lesser quoting Whistler with words the effect that he saw colours like notes on a keyboard; he started naming his paintings after musical works, e.g. “Symphony in White” before he got to his masterpieces, the Nocturnes.
I wrote about another of the Nocturnes here. Nocturne in Black and Gold, in the same series as the third picture above, is famous for having been at the centre of a libel case. The influential art critic John Ruskin hated it and accused Whistler of “flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face”. Whistler sued for damages (though he couldn’t really afford to). He won the case against Ruskin, but the outcome was financially disastrous for him because he was awarded only one farthing in damages and was bankrupted.
Tate Britain has an extensive permanent collection of primarily English art from about 1600 onwards, not least a huge collection of works by J.M.W. Turner. It’s fascinating to see so many of these together, charting this extraordinary artist’s evolution from brilliant if conventional upstart to pioneering impressionist. Along the way Turner’s interest in conventional themes began to wane in favour of the interplay between sea and clouds, to the extent that his works began to look like abstracts. There is in my mind a strong influence on Whistler. This one, ostensibly a seascape with a distant shore, reminds me of Rothko.
I can’t remember when I was last in the Victoria and Albert Museum but it’s long enough ago for me to have forgotten how big it is. It being free to get in and very near to why I am we are staying it was an easy decision to head there this morning before going to the Pride festivities. In fact it was so enjoyable and so extensive we were a bit late leaving. It’s definitely well worth a visit if you’re in London.
I remember the Raphael Cartoons from when I was last at the V&A. They’re very well done – an example is on the right below – but I didn’t find them very funny. In fact I couldn’t see the joke in any of them!
Just so you don’t think I’m a complete ignoramus, the “cartoons” are complete designs for tapestries – they would be placed underneath the loom as a template for the weavers to follow. Incidentally, the Bayeux “Tapestry” – currently on display in the British Museum – is not a tapestry at all. Being stitched rather than woven, it’s an embroidery not a tapestry. The Raphael cartoons were made for tapestries that hang on the walls in the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican, intended to complement Michelangelo’s famous ceiling. I still don’t know who did the floor.
I’m not very good at taking pictures in galleries, especially when I’ve got company as I had today, but in the light of yesterday’s post I couldn’t resist this:
It’s a plaster study by Alfred Stevens for a sculpture that would form part of the memorial to the Duke of Wellington in St Paul’s Cathedral. It’s called Truth and Falsehood (there is another called Valour and Cowardice).
In this work Truth tears out the double tongue of Falsehood and pushes aside the mask concealing his grotesque features. His serpent-tails are exposed beneath the drapery.
Another thing I was reminded of by today’s visit is the prominent role played in the early days of the Victoria & Albert Museum in South Kensington by the artist Frederic Leighton, who featured in a recent post.
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