Hello everyone, my name is Priyesh Mistry, and I am the Associate Curator for
Modern and Contemporary Projects at the National Gallery. I am speaking to you
today not from the Gallery but from my home in South London, and like many of
you I have been self isolating here for the past few months. This has been a
difficult time for many of us, especially as we have not been able to see any of
our close friends or family if they live elsewhere. This is particularly tough for
those of us who have recently lost loved ones, or have been affected by recent
news. I have always turned to art as a place to contemplate during difficult
times, so I want to take this moment to look at artworks in the National
Gallery's collection that could help remind us of how we might still be able
to come together to share our thoughts, our feelings, memories, and to remember
our loved ones. This painting from the 15th century hangs in the Sainsbury
Wing at the National Gallery. The title of this work is 'The Dormition of the
Virgin', and it shows the moment after the Virgin Mary has passed. Although we do
not know who authored this painting, we know that it may have been part of a
larger altar piece from the region of Tirana in Austria. In this small panel we
see the Virgin Mary laying serenely in her bed dressed in a vivid blue gown and
draped with a beautiful red and gold embroidered blanket. Surrounding her and
crowding into the small room are the Apostles, each encircled with golden disc
halos, who have gathered to perform her final rites. Now according to the
narrative on which the scene is based in the 13th century manuscript of the
Golden Legend, John the Evangelist and the other apostles
who spread the word of Christ off in different parts of the world
miraculously appeared at the Virgin Mary's side upon hearing the news of her
passing. I find this idea very comforting, knowing how difficult it is to be
together at this time, especially in different parts of the world. There are
still many ways for us to be connected in times of need. This compulsion to be
together is particularly heightened in this picture by the tight perspective
used in this composition. The artist presents the scene in such a small space,
framed by the columns, and this low panelled ceiling. He shows the apostles
crowding into the space, even only managing to paint the tops of the heads
and halos of some of them, including the slightly awkward kneeling positions of
the figures in front of the bed in order to fit them into the narrow foreground.
Some of you may have noticed that there are actually 13 apostles present in this
image, an additional one or two included for extra measure, although this is
highly unusual. Perhaps we can find a sort of explanation for this in another
detail of the painting. The pomegranate emblem in the intricate pattern of the
blankets embroidery has many meanings in Christian iconography, and perhaps the
most resonant here is the pomegranate as a symbol of unity, of the bringing
together of people under the church, a symbol of community no matter how many
people we expect there should be. Another important way for us to come together
and remember someone is of course through their image, through their
portrait. Now portraiture has had an important role in the history of art
across the world, and of the many incredible portraits that are in the
National Gallery, I want to focus on this portrait by Rembrandt of an 83 year old
woman painted in 1634, when he was only in his 20s and had just
arrived in Amsterdam. What is remarkable about this highly realist painting is
the skill and level of detail Rembrandt uses to present the features of this
woman's face, the layers of small painted strokes to show the folds and wrinkles
of her skin, the tautness of her hair pulled back, all framed by the crisp
white edges of the fabric bonnet, and the stiff ruff that she wears. Her eyes look
out, not directly at us, but into a space as if she is contemplating something
much deeper. For a long time the identity of this sitter was unknown, at one point
even assumed to be Rembrandt's grandmother, but it is now thought to be
Aechje Claesdr, the widow of a successful brewer from Rotterdam
called Jan Pesser. They were members of a prominent family of the Remonstrant community, a
denomination that faced much persecution from the dominant church in Holland at
that time. The portrait was commissioned from Rembrandt by her son, who also had
his portrait made at the same time. In 17th century Holland, portraits had a
different function to what we assume they may have today. Rather than present
an idealised or filtered version of a person, the representation of reality, the
warts and all image, was highly regarded and valued. For Rembrandt this worked in
his favour and for his interest in how to fully represent the idea of
transience, of a person's life, how their appearance
carries their history, and it's important to remember that the sitters also hold
some agency in the way that they want to be presented, and how they are remembered.
Here Claesdr chooses not to wear the most expensive fashions of the day
just to show how wealthy she is. She wears something much more modest,
perhaps more befitting to her beliefs. What is powerful about portraits is that
we together can see, remember and celebrate a person through their image,
their likeness, an image that they too have helped to produce. The last painting
I would like to talk about is one that you may recognise. 'Water Lilies' by the
French artist Claude Monet was part of a series of paintings based on the ponds
and gardens of his estate in Giverny. The painting we have in the National
Gallery's collection is immense. It's 2 metres high and just over 4 metres wide,
a monumental canvas that focuses solely on the rippling surface of the water, the
reflections of the sky and clouds, and perhaps the willow trees and foliage
that surround the pond. Water lilies themselves appear to float on the
surface, both on water and the canvas, their bright leaves atop a shimmering
nebulous of colours. Here we can see strokes of green, ochre, yellow, alongside
washes of violets and blues, and all interspersed with moments of pink,
the radiant pink of the lily flowers.
Monet was in his seventies when he embarked on these monumental paintings,
but at a moment in his life of particular introspection and mourning. In
1911 his wife Alice passed away, followed by the tragic death of his eldest son
Jean. A few years later, at the onset of the First World War, with two of his sons
drafted to the army, Monet committed himself to painting his water garden. He
built a new studio on his estate in 1916 to accommodate the scale and ambition of
these new paintings. He immersed himself into these studies of moving water. His
earlier compositions from the series included other features
such as willow trees and the famous Japanese-style bridge such as from the
painting that we have at the National Gallery made in 1899, however with these
new compositions, he pushed these elements completely out of the frame.
He created a space to mediate through the sensations of colour and light,
famously saying that he wanted to create the illusion of an endless hole, of a
wave with no horizon and no shore. On the 12th of November in 1918, the day after
the Armistice was signed, Monet gifted a series of these paintings to the French
nation which still hang in the Orangery in Paris. The painting in the National
Gallery was one that remained in his studio. It is a work that I have returned
to many times since I first saw it at the National Gallery as a teenager, a
work that I return to especially during challenging times, or moments of
high anxiety. Perhaps we can learn from the spirit of Monet's generosity to the
French nation, to use this painting as a space to contemplate together, to
remember, and to share. What artworks help you to remember your loved ones? If
you would like to share, please post in the comments below. If you would like to
learn more about art history, click here, and here. Thank you for watching and see
you next time.
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