Picture this: In the hush of midnight, under a moonlit sky casting eerie silver and black hues over twisted trees, a shadowy figure wields a shovel with intent that chills the spine. Is he concealing a corpse or unearthing forbidden treasures for some mad experiment? And yet, this scene isn't drawn from a horror tale—it's the masterful brushwork of Joseph Wright of Derby, an artist deeply entwined with the trailblazing scientists and innovators of Birmingham's Lunar Society. These visionaries were at the forefront of a revolutionary science that would later fuel Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. But here's where it gets controversial: This painting, 'An Earthstopper on the Banks of the Derwent,' reveals a man not digging up bodies, but sealing a fox den to trap the animals for an easy hunt the next day—a act that feels downright cruel through our modern ethical lens. Perhaps Wright sympathized with the foxes, as the artwork exudes a sinister vibe, yet it's mesmerizingly beautiful. Dual sources of light—a flickering lantern and the radiant moon—breathe life into the night, making you almost sense the rustle of leaves, the roar of the Derwent River's whitecaps, and the thud of the shovel against earth. Painting a daytime landscape is one feat, but Wright transforms the darkness into a vibrant, almost living spectacle.
Diving deeper into the National Gallery's exploration of Wright's fascination with shadows and light, we see him emerge as the pioneer of gothic art. While gothic novels burst onto the scene with Horace Walpole's 'The Castle of Otranto' in 1764, Wright was already capturing the night's terrors on canvas in the 1760s and 1770s. And this is the part most people miss: The spine-tingling core of his works isn't rooted in ghosts or demons, but in science itself, weaving rational inquiry with an undercurrent of dread that echoes through the ages.
Take 'A Philosopher by Lamplight,' for instance. Here, two wide-eyed young travelers stumble upon a moon-kissed stream leading to a dimly lit cave, where an elderly man hunches over a skeleton, delicately lifting its bony leg as the skull's empty sockets seem to stare back with hollow intensity. The recluse is a thinker grappling with the mysteries of death, probing what happens when life fades. Yet, the stark truth? Nothing definitive emerges. As scientific thought gained traction across 18th-century Europe, offering a logical framework to comprehend the natural world, some radical voices—like Wright's close friend, Erasmus Darwin (grandfather of the famed Charles Darwin)—whispered that belief in God might be waning. This is where controversy sparks: Does this painting hint at a godless universe, or is it simply a celebration of curiosity? For beginners, imagine it as a visual debate on life's big questions, where science dismantles old supernatural fears, leaving us to ponder the void.
Then there's 'The Blacksmith’s Shop,' where the forge's blazing glow illuminates a crumbling edifice—a classic temple adorned with Corinthian columns. This isn't accidental; it nods to Renaissance nativity scenes, where the stable often mimics a ruined Roman structure, symbolizing paganism's fall and Christianity's ascent. So, what does this imply in Wright's context? It boldly suggests that the emerging industrial world is rising from the ashes of religious traditions, a birth amid decay. Expand on that for a moment: Think of it like the shift from horse-drawn carriages to steam-powered trains—progress born from upheaval, potentially shaking society's foundations.
Wright urges us to peer into the cosmos's true wonders through his grand masterpiece, 'A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery in Which a Lamp Is Put in Place of the Sun.' To help newcomers grasp this, an orrery is a mechanical model that simulates the planets orbiting the sun, a relic of Enlightenment-era gadgets designed to teach astronomy. The National Gallery thoughtfully includes a real orrery for guests to compare, making the exhibit interactive and enlightening. What makes Wright's version so enchanting is its perspective play: Up close, the model dwarfs the awestruck children, feeling immense and awe-inspiring; step back, and it shrinks to a mere educational toy beside the speaker and his note-taking companion. The scientist eyes the gentleman with doubt, while a bejeweled lady gazes blankly. It's as if the kids' unbridled wonder contrasts sharply with the adults' jaded detachment—reminding us that curiosity often dims with age.
But to really jolt the senses, Wright employs shock value. This orrery piece, alongside others from Derby Museum's exceptional collection, reunites with his chilling counterpart, the National Gallery's 'An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump.' Created just two years later, it pivots from fascination to foreboding. A young girl buries her face in horror, unable to watch as the demonstrator readies to evacuate air from a glass chamber, dooming the white cockatoo within to suffocate. Wright renders this ordeal with stark realism, highlighting how light pierces darkness to sculpt forms and voids. The central apparatus, with its sturdy wooden frame and gleaming brass, evokes the steam engines Lunar Society members were refining—tools of raw power, as Society co-founder Matthew Boulton famously declared: 'I sell here, Sir, what all the world desires to have: power!'
The onlookers are posh Georgians in a stately home, yet the true authority rests with the scientist. He fixates on us like a modern Oppenheimer, poised to unleash destruction. Wright doesn't condemn science outright; instead, he foreshadows its transformative—and potentially destructive—impact on society, much like the doomed bird. A candle from behind floods a glass with ethereal, almost radioactive luminescence, spotlighting a human skull. Intended as a clear demonstration of vacuum principles, it morphs into a harrowing tableau of innovation, dominance, brutality, and mortality. And here's the controversial twist: Perhaps the youngest girl, transfixed by the scene, is silently crafting her own gothic story, questioning whether scientific advancement is a blessing or a curse.
What do you think? Does the allure of scientific discovery justify its darker undertones, like the sacrifice of a bird for 'progress'? Or should we view Wright's works as a cautionary tale against unchecked innovation? Is the Enlightenment's glow blinding us to its shadows? Share your opinions below—do you agree with Wright's subtle critique, or see it as an overreaction? Let's discuss!
