Imagine peering into the eerie glow of 18th-century canvases where science dances with shadows, awakening both wonder and a chilling sense of dread. Joseph Wright of Derby's art isn't just beautiful—it's a provocative mirror reflecting the dawn of modern discovery, and the moral quandaries it unearths.
Dive with me into this captivating exhibition at the National Gallery, titled 'Wright of Derby: From the Shadows.' It showcases paintings bathed in darkness and light, positioning Wright as the pioneering gothic artist. But here's where it gets controversial: while gothic literature, like Horace Walpole's 'The Castle of Otranto' from 1764, conjured supernatural horrors, Wright's nocturnal scenes from the 1760s and 1770s unveil a spine-tingling truth rooted firmly in science, not specters. This shift challenges us to question whether enlightenment truly banishes fear or merely repaints it in rational hues.
Picture this: In 'An Earthstopper on the Banks of the Derwent,' a figure lurks by the turbulent River Derwent under a full moon that paints the sky in silvery blacks and grays. Is he a grave robber assembling parts for a monstrous creation, inspired by the era's fascination with reanimation? After all, Wright mingled with the Lunar Society of Birmingham—a circle of trailblazing scientists and industrialists who fueled Mary Shelley's imagination for Frankenstein. Yet, the man's act is hardly supernatural. By today's ethical lens, it's equally sinister: he's sealing off a fox den to trap the animals for the next day's hunt, turning wildlife into easy prey. Wright, perhaps echoing our own empathy for creatures, infuses this scene with an unsettling allure. The interplay of lantern light and moonlight breathes life into the night—rustling leaves, rushing waters, and the thud of the spade seem audible. Painting daytime landscapes is one feat, but Wright's mastery animates the nocturnal world, making it pulse with eerie vitality.
And this is the part most people miss: Wright wasn't just an artist; he was a visionary bridging art and science. Consider 'A Philosopher by Lamplight'—available for viewing at artuk.org. Two young explorers stumble upon a cave illuminated by a solitary candle, where an elderly man manipulates a skeleton, hoisting a bony leg as the skull's vacant eyes fixate on them. This hermit-philosopher probes the mysteries of mortality, yet science reveals a stark reality: death is final, devoid of afterlife. As rational inquiry blossomed in 18th-century Europe, radical thinkers like Wright's acquaintance, Erasmus Darwin (grandfather of Charles Darwin), began whispering that even God might fade from the picture. For beginners, this painting illustrates how science demystified the unknown, replacing divine intervention with empirical exploration—a pivotal Enlightenment idea that still sparks debate today.
In 'The Blacksmith’s Shop' (see the Wikipedia image for a closer look), the incandescent forge glow bathes a crumbling structure: the workshop resides within a classical temple adorned with Corinthian pillars. This echoes Renaissance nativity scenes, where stables in ruined Roman temples symbolized paganism's demise and Christianity's ascent. Here, it subtly suggests modernity's birth from Christianity's ruins, a nod to the industrial revolution's transformative power. Wright invites us to ponder: Is this progress, or a lament for lost faith?
Now, let's turn to 'A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery in which a Lamp Is Put in Place of the Sun,' viewable at artuk.org. Wright urges us to embrace the universe's wonders through science, depicting a dazzling demonstration. For context, an orrery is a mechanical model replicating the solar system—think of it as an early simulator of planetary motion, complete with revolving spheres representing planets orbiting a central sun. The National Gallery thoughtfully provides a real orrery for comparison, helping visitors grasp this historical invention.
What makes Wright's portrayal enchanting? The orrery shifts in scale based on your viewpoint. Up close to the children's captivated faces, it looms vast; step back, and it shrinks to a toy beside the lecturer and his note-taking companion. The scientist eyes him dubiously, a jewel-adorned woman appears disinterested, while the kids brim with excitement. This contrast highlights how curiosity often wanes with age—perhaps Wright hints that wonder is a child's gift, easily dulled by adult cynicism. As an example, imagine how today's kids might marvel at a virtual reality model of the cosmos, unlike some adults who see only gadgets.
But here's where it gets controversial: Wright employs shock to jolt us. Reuniting works from the Derby Museum's stellar collection, the exhibition pairs this orrery with the National Gallery's 'An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump' (check out the YouTube video for a visual). Painted just two years later, it pivots from awe to horror. A lecturer prepares to evacuate air from a glass chamber, dooming a white cockatoo inside. One girl buries her face in revulsion; others react with varied emotions.
Wright renders this with stark realism, his mastery of light slicing through shadows defining every form. The apparatus evokes the steam engines refined by Lunar Society members like Matthew Boulton, who famously declared, 'I sell here, Sir, what all the world desires to have: power!' Yet, the power resides not with the gentry in this Georgian estate but with the scientist—a 18th-century Oppenheimer, staring out as he cranks the handle, orchestrating a fatal experiment akin to detonating a bomb. Wright doesn't condemn science; he foresees its world-altering might, much like the bird's inevitable demise.
Candlelight behind a vessel infuses it with ethereal glow, illuminating a human skull, transforming a rational vacuum demo into a haunting spectacle of science, authority, cruelty, and mortality. The youngest girl, transfixed by the terror, might even be sketching her own gothic tale. This painting subtly warns that scientific advancement, while enlightening, carries ethical shadows—think of modern debates over animal testing or nuclear energy.
In essence, Wright's art celebrates the 'true magic' of discovery while hinting at its darker undertones. Is he a prophet of progress, or a harbinger of unintended consequences? What if this 'death' of the supernatural paved the way for humanity's own hubris? I'd love to hear your thoughts: Do you view Wright as an optimistic champion of enlightenment, or a cautionary voice against science's potential cruelty? Share your opinions in the comments—do you agree that art like this forces us to confront the moral dilemmas of innovation, or disagree that it's overhyped? Let's discuss!
