UNTIL quite recently, Cimabue's Madonna Carried in Procession through the Streets of Florence (1853-55) hung on a wall above the National Gallery main entrance stairs. Many visitors probably passed beneath without noticing it. The same holds true of the position that its creator Frederic, Lord Leighton (1830-96) holds in the British art world of today: central to its history, yet largely ignored.
Nobody overlooked him in his 19th-century heyday. When Cimabue's Madonna was viewed at the Royal Academy (RA) in 1855, the Art Journal described it as 'the one picture in the collection that will mark this year... as an epoch in British Art'. Queen Victoria purchased it for 600 guineas and Leighton eventually became one of the most fashionable artists of her reign. Of sufficient means not to depend entirely on selling canvases, he produced technically excellent, opulently staged historical and mythological works and moved with ease among the aristocracy. His studio house in London's Holland Park, Kensington, W14 (now Leighton House museum), became a palace of art notable for its Moorish décor. President of the RA from 1878, he was made a baronet in 1886, elevated to the peerage one day before his death (as Lord Leighton, Baron of Stretton, he is the only British artist so honoured) and given a funeral in St Paul's.
It's not difficult to see why his monumental paintings, with their polish and obscure classical references, are less admired today. He was a contemporary of Manet and Degas by the time of Leighton's death, Gauguin had already sailed for the South Seas and Picasso's Blue Period was five years ahead -yet he appears to be from a different age.
This story is from the March 22, 2023 edition of Country Life UK.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber ? Sign In
This story is from the March 22, 2023 edition of Country Life UK.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Give it some stick
Galloping through the imagination, competitive hobby-horsing is a gymnastic sport on the rise in Britain, discovers Sybilla Hart
Paper escapes
Steven King selects his best travel books of 2024
For love, not money
This year may have marked the end of brag-art’, bought merely to show off one’s wealth. It’s time for a return to looking for connoisseurship, beauty and taste
Mary I: more bruised than bloody
Cast as a sanguinary tyrant, our first Queen Regnant may not deserve her brutal reputation, believes Geoffrey Munn
A love supreme
Art brought together 19th-century Norwich couple Joseph and Emily Stannard, who shared a passion for painting, but their destiny would be dramatically different
Private views
One of the best ways-often the only way-to visit the finest privately owned gardens in the country is by joining an exclusive tour. Non Morris does exactly that
Shhhhhh...
THERE is great delight to be had poring over the front pages of COUNTRY LIFE each week, dreaming of what life would be like in a Scottish castle (so reasonably priced, but do bear in mind the midges) or a townhouse in London’s Eaton Square (worth a king’s ransom, but, oh dear, the traffic) or perhaps that cottage in the Cotswolds (if you don’t mind standing next to Hollywood A-listers in the queue at Daylesford). The estate agent’s particulars will give you details of acreage, proximity to schools and railway stations, but never—no, never—an indication of noise levels.
Mission impossible
Rubble and ruin were all that remained of the early-19th-century Villa Frere and its gardens, planted by the English diplomat John Hookham Frere, until a group of dedicated volunteers came to its rescue. Josephine Tyndale-Biscoe tells the story
When a perfect storm hits
Weather, wars, elections and financial uncertainty all conspired against high-end house sales this year, but there were still some spectacular deals
Give the dog a bone
Man's best friend still needs to eat like its Lupus forebears, believes Jonathan Self, when it's not guarding food, greeting us or destroying our upholstery, of course