Traditionalists often complain of the lack of craft in modern art, yet the photographer Tom Hunter, in his composition and use of light, shows an equivalent level of skill to any “Old Master” with horsehair brush and oils. There is something astonishingly painterly about his work with a lens.

It is thus something of a shock to come suddenly upon his show at the National Gallery. Walking into the Sunley room, your gaze is attracted by the distant prospect – several galleries on – of Van Dyck’s famous giant equestrian portrait of Charles I. Then you look left, to an image that seems equally familiar; a young woman stands holding a letter in the light of a window.

Looking closer, you realise that while you might well have seen it before, this is not the familiar Vermeer painting, but Hunter’s Woman reading a Possession Order, which was modelled on it. Made in 1997, and winner of the Kobal Photographic Portrait Award the following year, it is a highly accessible, yet highly effective, image. Instead of the rich bourgeois setting of the original, this is a dilapidated Hackney room, and beside the woman is not a bundle of richly embroidered cloth but a baby, who looks anxiously at his straight-backed mother, who is carefully holding herself together.
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Imagine that you are told that the whole of London is about to be destroyed. The British Museum, the Victoria and Albert Museum, all of the treasures about to be swept away. You’ve got a magic wand and can save just one room. Which would you choose?

Oddly enough, I think I’d chose Gallery 46A at the V&A – the Cast Court – which contains not one original object, but crams into one room an entire art history of almost two millenniums of Europe in a mad, exotic menagerie. There are tombs, fonts, doors, panels, freestanding statues and crosses, portrait busts, monumental memorials. The originals were in bronze, in stone, in wood, but here they are in plaster – that fragile but infinitely malleable magic dough – carefully copied and coloured, preserving every crack and grain, every indentation left by weary buttocks over the ages; not quite real but not quite fake.
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There have been 776 winners of Nobel Prizes – for physics, chemistry, medicine, literature and (more recently) economics – since they began in 1901. Yet were they recognition for astounding, outstanding individuals, or parts of teams and milieus that happened to be picked out of a communal project?

That’s the central question of an exhibition that has just arrived at the British Library, Beautiful Minds, the Centennial Exhibition of the Nobel Prize.

One view starts the exhibition, that of Sir Alexander Fleming: “It is the lone worker who makes the first advance in a subject: the details may be worked out by a team, but the prime idea is due to the enterprise, thought and perception of an individual.” Yet further on you go back to Lucretius in 55BC: “Nothing can be created out of nothing.”

The story certainly begins with one man, the founder of the prizes, Alfred Nobel, who invented dynamite in 1867. He proved himself not just an inventor – with more than 300 patents to his name, for goods ranging from artificial silk to aluminium boats – but a brilliant businessman, growing his explosives empire to nearly 100 factories around the globe. Some of their products – or at least one hopes only their packets – are on display.
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There’s a curious conundrum at the heart of Britain’s National Portrait Gallery. The institution collects people, as recorded by art. So as you walk around the rooms, are you looking at historic individuals, or at paintings?

These are certainly not “the best” paintings in British history; they can (by definition at least) be found next door in the National Gallery. (The strong presence of Sir Peter Lely here, and his total absence in the rooms overlooking Leicester Square demonstrate that.) Yet these are not (mostly) a photographic record, rather an image that is a blend of what the artist saw and (usually) what the sitter wanted him to see.

Yet somehow, these two sides of the collection do come together. When I pick out my “favourite women of the NPG” I am looking at the paintings – these are the faces that through which I can find something of the woman behind them, and I like what I find. A little research reveals, however, that they were also great characters, with real achievements to their credit. Somehow you can identify, even from a flattering, fashionable portrait, those who were more than a vapid aristocrat or a lucky courtesan.

This listing is by date, which also conveniently makes a trail through the gallery, starting at the top floor and working down. It is entirely personal – by all means add your own favourites in the comments.

Mary Neville, Lady Dacre (1524-c.1576), painted by Hans Eworth, probably early in the reign of Elizabeth I, after she had succeeded in having the family title restored to her son, after her husband had been executed. Statuesque might be the polite adjective for Lady Dacre; she’s painted with one double chin, which probably meant she had several. Her lush auburn hair is tightly combed behind a lavishly pearled, black velvet head-dress. She looks stern and formidable, but satisfied, like a woman who has achieved her life’s work. A short biography. (Gallery 2) Continue reading

London’s answer to the Arc de Triomphe, the outside entrance to Buckingham Palace, a source of controversy and scandal – all of those are or have been among the roles of Wellington Arch (also known as Constitution Arch), which stands today at an odd angle opposite Apsley House, amidst a raceway of roads. (Something for London’s mayor Ken Livingstone to sort out soon, you’d have to hope.)

So is it worth the £3 entry fee (or less with a combined ticket for Apsley House)? Continue reading

Imagine an alternative history – a great game for a wet winter’s afternoon. The battle of
Waterloo turns out the other way, and today in London breakfast means a croissant and an espresso, and all of its women can tie a scarf just so.

Hard to see? Well yes. But had that come to pass, it would have been one of Napoleon’s generals, most likely, living in the house that was called No 1 London, which still today guards the entrance to the formal parts of Westminster.

Instead, of course, Apsley House became the home of the Duke of Wellington – the designer of that famous boot, among his other claims to fame. So if you’re visiting London and into history, it just about has to be on the itinerary.

But be reassured, this is not a military museum; you won’t feel like you’re playing war games. The house has been restored to much the state that it was in when Wellington lived there in splendour in the years after Waterloo, a life that embraced both celebration and disappointment.

The former is best represented by the painting in the entry hall of the grand dinner, held every year on the anniversary of Waterloo (June 18), to which scores of his officers were invited. The latter is represented in the scores of political caricatures mocking Wellington the Prime Minister who chose to during his term of office to live here, rather than move to the humbler quarters of Downing Street.

For here was not just a spectacular house, but the fittings and furnishings donated by the grateful crowned heads of Europe – many of whom owed their status to Waterloo. That means it could hardly be grander, for the crowned heads had a taste for luxury, if not a sense of taste.
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