My wife was married in green. In a larky wedding snap we pose hand in hand in front of our fireplace, on the mantelpiece a vase I made to celebrate our union. My right hand is raised as if in blessing, her left rests on her pregnant belly. What inspired our nuptial jape was of course a painting over 550 years old. I cannot remember the first time I saw a reproduction of the Arnolfini portrait – it must have been in a school art book – but it seems to have been in my mind forever. It is a civil ikon, the near symmetry of the composition, full-length depiction of the couple, the neat arrangement of significant objects are reminiscent of the much-kissed artworks of orthodox Christianity. To my modern eyes this painting is an early altar to human love. It is an archetype echoed through art history, by Gainsborough’s Mr and Mrs Andrews and Hockney’s Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy, and by those aspirational spreads in Hello! Magazine where we see the accoutrements of social climbing laid out as plainly as in that coolly lit room in Bruges in 1434.
I wonder if it is possible for a relationship with a painting to be akin to that with a marriage partner? The initial glimpse across a crowded room, the first meeting eye to eye, a delightful first date: my gaze roving over the surface, hungry for new joys. Then the marriage: a painting becomes my official favourite. I am often asked what sort of art I like and have a ready list to trot out. But I worry – what if I were to read a book solely about one painting, what if I were to know of its long string of past relationships in messy detail? What if I were to be led chapter by chapter through every line, every image, every symbol on its lovely surface – would I tire of it? Would over-familiarity bring on the ‘Mona Lisa curse’ where the cultural baggage of an artwork overwhelms its beauty. Reading this fine book, such fears were soon laid to rest. Carola Hicks has reinvigorated my love for the Arnolfini portrait to the point where I want to make my own homage. I have sometimes been dismissive about the view that knowledge about and understanding of an artwork would enrich one’s appreciation of it, but I am a convert. I now look at van Eyck’s crystalline masterpiece with new wonder, not only at his illusionistic skill and formal rightness but also his social acuity.
Perhaps the most moving realisation has been how thin the thread is that has pulled this small glowing panel of wood through history. It has survived five and a half centuries of damp, parties, neglect, adulation and war, not to mention travel by sailing ship and baggage cart. Reading this book has turned every future visit to the National Gallery into a pilgrimage where I must each time if only for a few moments renew my acquaintance with the ‘lank quakerish object’ from Lucca and the girl in the green gown.