National Gallery

It’s hard to know if Italian Renaissance master Andrea Mantegna was issuing a doom-laden warning or just a doe-eyed love letter to history. Because written into the nine sprawling canvases of his ‘Triumphs of Caesar’ (six of which are on show here while their gallery in Hampton Court Palace is being renovated) is all the glory and power of Ancient Rome, but its eventual collapse too. It starts, like any good procession, with a load of geezers with trumpets, parping to herald the arrival of victorious Caesar. As they blare, a Black soldier in gorgeous, gilded armour looks back, leading you to the next panel where statues of gods are paraded on carts. Then come the spoils of war, with mounds of seized weapons and armour piled high, then come vases and sacrificial animals, riders on elephant-back, men struggling to carry the loot that symbolises their victory. The final panel, Caesar himself bringing up the rear, remains in Hampton Court, so there is no conclusion here, just a steady, unstoppable stream of glory and rejoicing.  The paintings are faded and damaged, and have been so badly lit that you can only see them properly from a distance and at an angle. But still, they remain breathtaking in their sweeping, chaotic beauty.  Partly, this massive work is a celebration of the glories of the classical world and its brilliance, seen from the other side of some very dark ages. But along with its rise, you can’t help but also think of Rome's demise, of what would eventually come a

How much light can you pack into a painting? How much love, despair, hope, anxiety? In the case of Vincent Van Gogh, the answer is: infinite. This mesmerising show of kaleidoscopic, emotional art brings together work from the last two years of his life, years spent in Provence turning painting inside out and mentally falling apart in the process. It’s a show full of themes: poets, lovers, gardens, peasants. He paints the wild, rocky, parched landscapes of southern France, the psychedelic, jagged gardens of the asylum he placed himself in, the calm, domestic peace of his yellow house. There are figures here – walking down avenues, sitting for portraits – and there are things – sunflowers, teapots – but they all serve a purpose greater than their own representation: Van Gogh was trying to paint meaning. In 1888, Vincent was living in a yellow house in Arles. Here, he painted figures as poets and lovers, couples wandering in the wilds, he painted fields unfurling full of allegorical intentions. He dreamed up ways to show his art to hipster cognoscenti up in Paris, he created groupings of works that would complement each other and unspool narratives.  Vincent was thinking about an art of the future, he was thinking about his legacy, his place in the history of art. That brings with it a sense of frustration. Van Gogh wanted a life of literature and poetry, of mythology and love, success and praise, adulation and camaraderie; these gardens and poets are hopes, dreams, ambitions th