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...

Standing in front of ‘The Vision of Saint Jerome’ is like slipping down a water slide. The most important painting by sixteenth century Italian maestro Girolamo Francesco Maria Mazzola, aka Parmigianino, is an exercise in sinuous, surreal psychedelia, and it’s stunning. He painted it at just 23, a commission for a nobleman’s burial chapel. John the Baptist kneels before you at the bottom of the altarpiece, dressed – though barely – in furs. He’s twisting his body, his impossibly long limbs and fingers, to point you towards the scene at the apex. There, the Virgin Mary and Christ child – both monumentally huge – perch on a crescent moon, lit by blinding rays of sunlight. You are dwarfed by the painting, the colossal figures; the looming, circuitous composition not only dominates you, but forces you to follow its curving course. It forces your line of sight to spiral upwards, towards the heavens. Incredible. But there in the foreground, a man lies, seemingly asleep in a densely overgrown forest, cradling a crucifix, a cracked skull at his feet. This is Saint Jerome, but is he dreaming? Is this whole scene a vision? A figment of his imagination? History seems to have lost the answers to that question. But that sense of mystery only adds to the genuinely imposing, moving power of the painting. Newly conserved and re-framed, and flanked by excellent preparatory sketches, this painting is one of the UK’s most mesmerising works of renaissance art. I’m no Christian, but in all...

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...

If you thought the National Gallery answered every question that could possibly be asked about what came after the impressionists in their huge blockbuster ‘After Impressionism’ show in 2023, you thought wrong. Because they’re coming back for another go with ‘Radical Harmony’, which will feature the work of the neo-impressionists, including pointilist masters Georges Seurat and Paul Signac. It’s enough to drive you dotty.