What is ‘Art Feeds The Soul’?
While discernible in ordinary life, there is no place in which the above quote by de Botton is more clear than in the art gallery – a place where even the most optimistic people are faced with questions of purpose.
This leaves little space in a gallery for art that is comfortable, that is familiar, and even less for art that is comfort​ing​. But the challenges of art can themselves be comforting. In this vein, we look at several pieces in permanent collections around London that are not necessarily easy to see, but that may be today’s apothecary for our existential needs.
Wilton Diptych
English or French (circa 1395-9)
The artist of this painting – sometimes referred to as the “Wilton Master” – has never been identified. Indeed, while her or his identity remains a mystery, I intend to do the opposite in regards to why a piece of 14th century religious art belongs in a series named ‘Art Feeds the Soul’.
Unlike many other paintings from this time, which would have been on display as large altar pieces in church, this small two-part painting was intended for one pair of eyes only. The diptych resembles a book: it would have been folded shut and carried while travelling, then opened in a private room and, flanked by myriad candles, set up for prayer.
Richard II (King of England from 1367 to 1400) at the front of the left-hand panel
Even stranger, the person praying would have been Richard II, King of England from 1367 to 1400, who is depicted kneeling at the front of the left-hand panel. This is one of the first and clearest artistic examples of the Divine Right of Kings – a belief that the monarchy can be subject to no earthly authority, deriving its right to rule directly from the will of God.
This is one of the first and clearest artistic examples of the Divine Right of Kings…
The religious art wing of the National Gallery may seem like an insufferable place to be, and to be sure, one does run into the more cerebral (to put it politely) characters of the London art-going public. But it is spectacular. Designed in such a way that only a few lights are needed for the entire wing to be brighter than a University Challenge contestant, the gold leaf on most images bathes the room in this glistening, angelic light. The issue with finding solace in most churches is that they are dark, dank places – rarely lit during the day for budgetary reasons. I do not guarantee you will find peace in a busy part of the museum, but you will find some semblance of enlightenment.
John the Baptist, Saint Edmund and Saint Edward the Confessor
The two panels show different realities altogether: earth on the left and heaven on the right. Three saints – John the Baptist, Saint Edmund and Saint Edward the Confessor – stand behind the King, gesturing to where the Virgin Mary and ranks of angels in brilliant blue fill the scene. The Kneeling Richard holds his hands open, waiting to receive the flag of England, which has been blessed by the infant Jesus.
The two panels show different realities altogether: earth on the left and heaven on the right.
Gold radiates divinity and luxury both as both a precious material and a radiant yellow colour, it has proven irresistible since humans first set eyes upon it. Its rarity and natural brilliance has made it a desirable material for the homes, tombs and trappings of the rich and powerful for centuries. Due to its malleability it is particularly adaptable, it can be made into jewellery, engraved with pattern or hammered into paper-thin sheets to make gold leaf. Paintings with expanses of gold leaf, painstakingly applied to a prepared ground are themselves precious objects.
The liveried angels are a strange anticipation of Shakespeare’s Richard II play, written some 200 years later
Far more than its luxurious connotations, gold also boasts otherworldly associations. Of all colours, gold is the one whose associations have remained relatively consistent over the centuries. As it naturally reflects light, it was understood to have something of the quality of the sun: a radiant sun has been a constant image of the divine, from the Greek god Helios who pulled his sun chariot daily across the sky to the glittering haloes of Christian saints.
The liveried angels in the rear ground, iconographically very unusual, are a strangely precise anticipation of the lines from Shakespeare’s Richard II of 200 years later:
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord:
… then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.
(Act III Scene 2)
It is possible that Shakespeare had seen the picture, then still in the Royal Collection.
While a traditional Christian painting, the overwhelming light that this work suffuses is enough to rid one of Vitamin D deficiencies. I can guarantee that a visit here on a ​foggy day​ in London town will raise even the most dejected spirits. I am neither Christian nor religious, but came to two important realisations when looking at the Diptych.
…the overwhelming light that this work suffuses is enough to rid one of Vitamin D deficiencies.
The first is that it is unquestionable that the modern tenets of our British world are built on faith, much as we try to negate its influence in today’s society.
The other, is that in some sort of proportion to the amount of pain and displacement religion has caused over centuries – outrageously challenging and beautiful art has also carved a place for itself.
The algorithmic art of the Islamic world with its minarets, carpets, and calligraphic patterns, or the sand Mandalas of the Buddhists, or the mosaics of the Jews – one thing binds them together. Institutions with ​money,​ historically religious, can afford to make these beautiful things.
Beauty impresses, beauty hypnotises, and beauty placates. Just what you want on a low day.
