We were sixteen, we were deeply pleased with ourselves, extraordinarily annoying and thought we already knew everything. We’d all picked history of art because we thought it would be a doddle. Yes Miss, we know about paintings. Yes Sir, we get that sculpture might be made of marble. Duh. Yes, we can spell Michaelangelo (wait a second, is that right?) and of course we go to galleries (do they serve cider there and are they full of cute boys?).
For context – I went to an all-girls school bang in the centre of London, we flew to school on the tube, had a full burgundy uniform (even tights #speechless). We were a hotchpotch of badly executed home-highlights, Juicy Fruit gum and an unhealthy obsession with whether to go to third base.
Our skirts were rolled up too high, two of us wore fishnets (burgundy ones, yes, they exist), we passed notes to each other and we stared out of the window dreaming that Simon le Bon would waltz in and save us. Can you imagine anything worse than teaching us? Exactly. Me neither.
Our history of art teacher was Mrs Dale. She was pristine, she was calm, she was together. She wore a high bun and at least eight different shades of brown. She hardly raised her voice, she never yelled, she rarely tutted. She was kind, she was quiet, she had pin-sharp focus and she believed in loafers and the Renaissance.
One morning, we were (as usual) not paying attention, almost certainly whispering about lunch – I’ll swap a Marathon bar for a bagel, sure – and she said, ‘Right class, nothing seems to be going in while we’re here. Let’s go and see something, shall we?’ She shot up from behind her desk faster than a whippet on crack and marched out of the classroom at high speed. Confused and still talking about the merits of a Double Decker versus a Flake, we all got up to follow her.
She sprinted to the school’s front door and we practically had to run to keep up. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ we mouthed as our teeth clattered together – it was a freezing January day and there was no time to get our coats. It was windy, we were swearing under our breath, she was striding with purpose. She trooped us to St Paul’s Cathedral. We didn’t understand, we asked if this was a planned trip, we occasionally called out, ‘You alright, Miss?’ but we followed her in and were immediately hushed. The chatting stopped.
‘Now, girls. I know lunch is important, I know boys are irresistible, but you need to understand what we’re studying here. Breathtaking architecture, mesmerising art, wonderful sculpture. That is the greatest privilege of all.’ Her hands were on her hips (this meant business we’d later learn).
She continued. ‘I was young once, I understand you just want to gossip and natter and have fun, but look up. Don’t worry about lipstick and bands and anything else at this moment. I implore you, girls. Just. Look. Up.’
We’d walked past the cathedral a million times, we’d sat on her steps while scoffing Monster Munch ogling boys from the school opposite, we’d taken her for granted. The inside of St Paul’s is (and I really do hate this word but it’s the only one that will do) awesome. It’s enormous, it’s majestic, it’s classical architecture in its purest form and the dome is 365 feet high. The columns feel like they reach space, the nave could house fifteen buses (this is not strictly true but it feels like it) and it took our breath away.
Mrs Dale encouraged us to take it all in while she explained Lord Admiral Nelson and Sir Christopher Wren were buried there. She let us gawp at the detailing while telling us that Martin Luther King chose St Paul’s to give a sermon in 1964. ‘It only just survived the blitz, it’s a masterpiece, don’t forget this. The whole design came from one brain. This is on our doorstep, art is alive and if I need to distract you from tittle tattle to wake you up, then so be it.’
Of course we didn’t want to look like we’d turned, we didn’t want to look too impressed. But something happened that day. There was nothing funny to hide behind. We couldn’t take the mick, we couldn’t whisper and laugh. It was just us, looking at Wren’s masterwork. We stayed too long, we missed lunch and we were in the palm of her hand from that day forward. She talked to us like we were grown-ups, she fed us with information without thinking it wouldn’t go in. She didn’t panic about note-taking and underlining essay titles. She didn’t sweat the small stuff.
Not long after our spontaneous trip to St Paul’s, Mrs Dale casually took us to the National Gallery to stand in front of the Arnolfini Portrait for 90 minutes one day after school. Then, the following year, she successfully fought with the headmistress for money to take us to Italy. ‘They need to see it,’ she was heard yelling just outside the lunch hall. It was 1989 and we were seventeen and we went to Venice. The whole history of art A level group – about twelve of us. It was bats.
Some of us had been away with our families but it was usually beach holidays or camping – we were about to experience something else entirely. When the plane landed and we got into a boat (wow, they weren’t kidding, there really is a lot of water, I thought it was, like, one river) we were blown away. We were there for two nights and three full days. We’d never seen anything like it, a whole city, like, on water (we said ‘like’, like, all the time).
We went to the Accademia and gazed up at the Raphaels. We ate all the gelato we could find and barely slept, staring out of the window gazing at the church spires and little gondolas. We ate pasta in tiny backstreets. ‘Look at that little bridge over the canal, look, they live there, in that apartment, the one that you get to by boat. Can you imagine?’ we squealed. This was a whole other world, this was a living, breathing, artwork that doubled up as an actual city. We wafted round St Mark’s Square feeling romantic and grown up and were just completely wowed. We shared an £8 coffee (so adult) and flirted with any poor unsuspecting boy we could find. Ciao! T’Amo! I mean, Venice should have ejected us.
Mrs Dale must have loved seeing our faces and gaping mouths. ‘Come on girls, here’s the Rialto, keep up, I’m now going to show you a Gorgione that might make you realise the power of storytelling through painting. And wait till I tell you what an x-ray of this painting revealed. Come on, come on.’
On the last day, we were all crowded round a table tearing through pizza and she said, quite indifferently, ‘You have 30 minutes of free time now and then I’d like you to meet me at the back of the Basilica Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. We’ll stay there for a bit and then collect our bags and go to the airport.’ So we spent the next half hour mooching around the tiny shops looking at elaborate masks and small animals made of glass – can anyone lend me some lira? I think I’ll get my brother this tiny penguin – and then we slowly wended our way to the Frari.
It’s not a beautiful church. It’s large and hefty and absolutely fine but compared to some others in Venice (see San Giorgio Maggiore or Santa Maria Formosa) it is, at best, a B. It’s large and red brick and although built in the sixteenth century could also be new. We slunk through the main doors at the end of the nave wondering where our teacher was and talking about if we had enough money to buy chocolate at the airport. The church was dark, it was enormous and a bit cold. Someone remembered she said to meet us at the back. Come on gang, last one. Bagsy have the Walkman on the plane first. God that pizza was good. I wish they had a heater in here. Now, where is Mrs D? We were done, we were sleepy, we were already back to life as normal and we just thought we’d get this out of the way and then get home. And then something happened. To be specific, Titian happened.
The Assumption of the Virgin is huge – it’s 22 feet tall and it towers over you; the figures are larger than life-size, in every way. The Virgin Mary is being propelled up to god in heaven. I am not religious but I would believe in anything looking at her. It’s a whirlwind, a painting that doesn’t stand still. As with all of Titian’s work it’s the colour that winds you, that makes your legs give way. The red, the blue, the golden light – it is not of this world, it is not what we usually see, it is not mortal. We couldn’t imagine this was real.
You see, you can’t believe it’s been created by human hand. The Virgin Mary looks like she’s alive, her clothes hang like velvet, she’s looking up, god is waiting for her. Beneath her, St Peter and the apostles are moving, they’re alive, they’re agitated, they’re angst-ridden, they can’t believe what they’re seeing and this broke with all tradition. It’s also in its rightful home: Titian painted it for this very church and this very spot (so often we see altarpieces in galleries, not in their ‘natural habitat’). There is such emotional power, such energy, such life, such force.
There was a low level hum of wonder around that painting. We stood with other visitors in complete silence, absolutely agog with astonishment. We had never seen anything like it and to this day it remains the most extraordinary ‘art moment’ of my life (I’m lucky, I’ve had a few). We were struck – make that thunderstruck – by what one could arguably say is the greatest painting in the world. We stood there actually unable to speak. I don’t know how many gaggles of seventeen-year-old girls you’ve come across but this is almost a miracle, an impossibility. We were quiet, we were thoughtful and didn’t want to leave that particular painting. We were dumbstruck all the way home – nobody worried about sweets or looking at the other school trip on our plane rammed with boys.
When we got back to school we had to write about Titian’s piece and we all said it was the greatest thing we’d ever seen. You see, every other altarpiece that came before it was polite, was proper, they followed the rules. There was beauty, yes, but that kind of energy? Absolutely not. This was a stand-out piece, something we knew we’d talk about in years to come. We asked Mrs Dale why she hadn’t told us what we were about to see, why she’d just said to meet at the back of the church. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘you’ll learn that, in life, high expectations are a killer.’
Of course, she is completely right and I have never forgotten that truth. Don’t expect to have your mind blown, your feet swept up from under you. Don’t think that you’re going to have the best night, the best sex, the best job, the best life. Good to keep your hopes small, excellent to keep them low. Go see a film before you’ve read too many five star reviews, try that local Italian place before everyone on your street tells you the risotto is to die for. Avoid the hype and, equally, try not to oversell everything before people get a chance to see it for themselves.
I love being all knowing – you must watch this, you must read this, this will knock your socks off – but it’s cruel in a way. Let people discover alone, let them have their own eureka moment. Send them the book, drop the name of the film or mention the band – don’t tell them it will change their life as then it might not. Mrs Dale made art relevant, exciting, magical and most of us fell in love with it and continued to study/read about it/talk about it to this day. (I’m writing about it now and this happened 100 years ago.) When I wanted to go to university I couldn’t imagine learning about anything else. I loved literature, I loved classics but it had to be art. I specialised in Rembrandt and I still bore my kids rigid with stories about seventeenth-century Holland. Is it useful for Strictly? No. Is it useful for my soul? Totally.
You see, I don’t know much, but I do know that art is the answer. Of course, there’s eye shadow, great necking and heavy black coats, but looking up at a beautiful painting is about the most enriching thing you can do with your time. People talk about self-care and they’ll talk animatedly over a hummus sandwich about bath salts and meditation and yoga. That’s all well and good but popping into any place where there are paintings or sculptures dotted around is like an internal massage; it’s better than humming on a mat and at it’s very best – and this is big – it’s even better for your soul than mascara.
The next time you feel slightly wobbly, the next time you feel confused, go to a gallery. Go to any. If you’re in London spend half an hour in the National. It’s free, it’s next to a tube and its walls are genuinely the best in the world. You might love Van Eyck, you might be a Titian girl like me or you might just fall in love with Stubb’s horse. Whatever you like, the colours, the sweeping brush strokes, the majesty will carry you up into a different world.
We accept mediocrity all the time. The pasta is edible, the music on the radio is passable, the bus was a bit late but at least there was a seat. We get the kids to bed, we check their spellings, we make sure our friends are fine and we pour ourselves a glass of wine at 8 and then flop into bed after the news. We get by. Of course we’re grateful and we love our lives, but we’re not always aware of extraordinary feats. Just sometimes we need to be reminded of gobsmacking, heart-thumping, stop-you-in-your-tracks beauty.
I realise that, at this point, you might be saying to yourself ‘That short, orange lady off the telly is lecturing me about going to galleries’ and considering throwing this book into the recycling bin. ‘I bought this book for stories about Anton du Beke for god’s sake,’ you’ll mutter into your coffee. ‘I need the info on the Strictly curse, I absolutely refuse to hear about how Turner can change your life.’
But honestly, trust me in this one, and at least consider giving it a go. Don’t worry about a calming app, don’t spend a fortune on a life-enhancing eye cream (it won’t) and don’t worry about missing out on the latest boxset. Surround yourself with stunning works, just stop and look at one piece, give yourself twenty minutes to marvel in splendour and then go about your day. These artists have given us extraordinary gifts and it’s a mistake to ignore them. Go and be amazed.
If you can get to Venice I’d like to meet you there – first Saturday in February at 2pm? Though I realise I’ve built her up now, I realise I’ve done everything Mrs Dale said I shouldn’t. You won’t be wowed so please let’s forget what I said. Let’s say it’s just some oils on some wood, let’s pretend it’s something some bloke painted in 1515, some guy who was particularly good with the colour red. Am sure you’ve seen better, it’s not a big deal. Meet you at the back of the Frari (I’ll bring the tissues).