All language subtitles for My.National.Gallery.2024.1080p.WEB.h264-CODSWALLOP_track3_[eng]

I'm Joshua Pell.

I'm a retail assistant
at the National Gallery.

Being at the gallery was
the main reason

I applied for the job
in the first place.

My dad brought me here once

when we visited London
when I was maybe 11 or 12.

I love the memories of being here.

My favourite painting
at the National Gallery

is The Adoration Of The Kings
by Jan Brueghel the Elder.

And he could have just maybe shown
a nativity scene,

that you would want it to look like.

I love that he's chosen
not to do that.

The first time I saw it was

during a lesson
with the Royal Drawing School,

where I had to choose a picture
to draw for five weeks.

The building just leaped out at me,

and I thought it was beautiful.

I think it reminds me a lot
of buildings

that I've seen around Hull,
where I grew up.

And Hull, given that it is a kind of
post-industrial town in the North,

has a lot
of that kind of urban decay.

I was always fascinated
with those buildings

that felt like
they'd been forgotten about.

I grew up there
in a working-class environment,

and my love of art
really came from my dad.

He worked in an industrial estate
near where I grew up.

He would drive through
there to get to work.

We would go with him,

and I would just stare
out of the window

at these buildings every day.

And I still have very vivid memories
of that.

When I saw this picture,

it gave me that feeling -

and I think I've been looking for it
since I was young.

I'm led in to this painting by
the sheer presence

of the building first

and all of this indulgent detail

of the flaking plaster
and straw on the roof.

And then I see this amazing thing
happening underneath.

The building kind of acts
as an umbrella

to the whole composition.

And, of course,
there's the beautiful landscape

in the background too.

It has so much busyness
and excitement

that you can look at this

and just enjoy indulging
in these little details

and these tiny narratives
that are going on,

and you really want to spend
the time to figure that out.

And I think maybe that's something

that's kind of been lost
a little bit in media

or the kind of forms
of entertainment

that we have and rely on now,

that, a lot of the time,
you don't make your own decisions

about what's happening.

You don't have to do any work
to find it,

it's all kind of just given to you.

I like this
as a form of entertainment.

It's fun.
It's fun to figure these things out.

My name is Alan Allison.

I'm a security officer
and gallery assistant,

London born and bred.

I've been at the gallery
ten years in September.

I always used to come past here
at night-time, in my clubbing days.

I always used to wonder
at the beauty of the building

and what is inside.

But it wasn't until
I started working in the gallery

that I realised, "Wow!"

I was captivated by the paintings.

From day one, I was going home,

reading up on them
and extending my knowledge.

I like to show the visitors
the beauty

of the paintings in the gallery,

the magic behind the paintings,
the hidden secrets.

But I haven't seen, really,

many paintings
that represent myself.

It does make me feel quite sad,
in a way,

because it doesn't really
reflect society.

They're very much still
in this bubble,

focusing on colonialism,
the slave trade.

You want to see portraits
which reflect Black people

who have contributed massively
to society,

part of the fabric of this nation
and making it great.

So, the National Gallery
does feel like my gallery.

However, when you're looking
at representation,

I feel that the gallery
can do a lot more.

My favourite painting
in the National Gallery

is Caravaggio's Supper at Emmaus,
painted in 1601.

Ah, so, the first time I saw it,
oh, it just won me over.

It spoke to me.

It's almost cinematic.

The way the characters
are portrayed in the painting,

you can almost visualise
what they're actually saying.

It's three days
after Jesus was crucified,

and then he was resurrected,

and he turned up
in the town of Emmaus.

He was walking through Emmaus,

and he stumbled upon
a few of the disciples.

They were kind of pouring out
their grief

about Jesus being executed.

And they said, "Oh, would you like
to attend a meal with us?"

So, it was only when he attended
the meal in the evening

that they realised who it was,
when Jesus broke the bread.

And this painting is that moment.

The character on the right -

who possibly could be Cleopas,
one of the disciples -

he's almost gesturing
as if to say to Jesus,

"The last time I saw you,
you were on the cross!"

And then the character on the left,
he possibly could be Luke,

and he's almost springing
out his chair in wonderment.

You can imagine,
if you was to look at him face-on,

his eyes would be almost popping out
from their sockets.

It's almost as if the viewer,

when they're looking
at this painting,

they're part
of being at this dinner table,

almost joining in
with the conversation.

Caravaggio is absolutely amazing.

It's the way he uses light
and shadow.

When you look at the vase,
for instance,

you can see
that beautiful reflection

on the table
that's cast from the shadow.

Also, above Jesus's head,

you can see a halo,
using the shadows.

And then,
sticking out from the side of Jesus,

you can see an angel's wing.

And lastly,
there's a basket of ripened fruit,

and, sticking out from the side,
you can see a fishtail,

which represents
the feeding the 5,000

with the bread and the fish.

So, it's deciphering the codes,

and then you will get
the true meaning of the painting.

I'm Helena Fitzgerald,

and I'm a corporate development
manager at the National Gallery.

My connection to the gallery
goes way beyond my job.

Most summer holidays,
when I was little,

I was brought here by my nan.

My nan knew everything about London.

She knew where to go,
she knew what was free,

what was interesting,
what was exciting,

and how to engage her kids
and her grandchildren.

My favourite painting in the gallery
is The Ballet Dancers by Degas,

which was painted around 1890.

And it's
my nan's favourite painting.

I know this was about finding
my own particular piece,

but I admired her so much.

She had a print of
The Ballet Dancers in her bedroom,

so that's probably the first time
I saw it, actually.

It was there, before we even came
to the National Gallery.

One of the things my nan used to do
when we were in an art gallery

was to figure out
what is interesting to you

and what makes you tick,

rather than giving her opinion
on a specific thing.

I used to be obsessed with dancing,
and I went to theatre school,

and I had the pleasure
of learning ballet.

So, when I look at this painting,

this is everything
I thought I was going to be.

I thought I was gonna be
a ballerina.

I'm looking through a window
into a classroom, into a studio,

into that moment of them stretching,
of them practising,

of them rehearsing.

I remember that feeling,

I remember stretching,
I remember the hard work.

I remember the, like, painful toes.

I feel emotional, I think, because
this has so many depths for me.

But that's what art is, right?

It's about feeling loads
of different things at once.

So, every time I look
at this painting,

it reminds me of my nan.

My name is Ann.
I'm Helena's grandmother.

I'm 87.

And I think I was about 15
when I first came to the gallery.

When I first came,
I thought it was a gruesome place

because there seemed to be
lots of pictures of crucifixions.

And I was a bit bewildered,
but I've grown to love it.

It's changed really immensely.

It's not that quiet place
where you crept about

and you were careful what you said
or if you even spoke very much.

There's more people here now.

Also, different age groups now,
there's more younger people come.

It's full of what I call
"real paintings"

of places and people.

It brings to life a different age.

My favourite painting
is The Ballet Dancer by Degas.

I love him. I love his paintings.

You can really feel
that they are moving.

It's just so clever.

The more you look at it,
the more it comes alive.

It's almost like you can see
the layers of the tulle.

And those lovely shoes,
you can see the satin.

Can you see how they shine?

And all of that amongst
all that dull floor.

But I think that painting...

When Helena told me that she had
a job in the National Gallery,

I was thrilled to bits.

I knew she would love
talking about it,

and she would have lots to tell me.

And I thought, "I'd probably
get in there a lot more now."

LAUGHS

The National Gallery
was founded in 1824,

really in the wake
of the Napoleonic Wars.

Having won the war,
there was a strong impetus

to try and win the peace

by creating the kind
of cultural institutions

which Napoleonic France had had

but which Britain had been very slow
in developing.

It's also a time
when other European states

are setting up
their national galleries.

What's different in the case
of our National Gallery

is that, in this case, it's not
a nationalised royal collection.

The real founding father
of the National Gallery

was a private collector
and Tory landowner

named Sir George Howland Beaumont

who was himself a painter,

which was unusual
for the aristocracy at the time.

A friend of Constable,
who hosted him in his own home.

And, as he had no children,

he was beginning to think,
in the 1820s, about what he would do

with his very fine collection
of paintings.

The original home
of the National Gallery wasn't

in Trafalgar Square.

It was a good couple hundred yards
to the west

at number 100, Pall Mall.

This was the residence
of John Julius Angerstein.

And until 1838,
for the first 14 years,

the National Gallery was
in a series of different terraces

on different sides of Pall Mall.

Large paintings
having to be squeezed into rooms

that were clearly intended
to be domestic in scale.

And so, early paintings
of the National Gallery

really do show pictures having to
be hung frame to frame

in what must have been
quite a tight and constricted hang.

My name's Michael Palin.

I'm a traveller and an actor
and a general hack.

And my favourite painting
was painted in 1844 by Turner,

and it's called Rain, Steam, Speed.

I think Turner's a genius,
and I love his work.

It's also a favourite painting
of mine because of the subject.

I've always been rather interested
in railways

and the history of railways.

And this is so significant

because it is about
the birth of the railway.

It was still a new thing

and a thing that, you know,
frightened so many people.

They thought it was going to destroy
the countryside

and make cows lose their calves

because of the noise and the steam
and all that.

But he's painted that
for another reason,

which is, I think,
this is the future.

This is his sort of
science-fiction painting.

The steam is very, very important.

But the focus is this machine.

He's using the countryside

and the beauty of the countryside
and the river

but counterbalancing it
with the power of the train,

this man-made thing, which is black
and rearing up and coming,

charging towards you.

So, I think he must have been
excited by it, maybe a bit alarmed.

But there is a real narrative here.

I think he's saying this is
a new world

that's been opened up
by the railway,

and it's got enormous possibilities,

and people are going to have to
adapt to it.

The train emerges
at a certain angle.

You just feel it's coming towards
you quite fast,

breaking through all the cloud.

And what I think he's also done
is contrast

the kind of static life around.

You know, there,
the little boat there,

the little skiff in the river.

And I do love these people here.

"Wow! Yeah!" What are they saying?

SCOTTISH ACCENT: "Go away!
Go away, you naughty work of Satan."

Or they're saying,
"Hey, where can we get a ticket?"

And then over
in the background there,

I think there's a man ploughing.

Tiny little figures,
but they're very, very important

cos they contrast the activity
and the dynamism

of the train
that's coming towards you.

I love all the people in... you can
see them in the coaches.

And they're completely uncovered.

There they are, all sitting there,

and obviously,
they're getting a bit wet.

They're going rather fast,
there's a lot of noise.

It looks terribly dangerous
to some people.

And yet, there they are.

It's like
a wonderful fairground ride.

And there's a hare -
it's very, very tiny -

running away from the train.

It's almost like the natural world
is running away

from something that may destroy it.

Hares are very fast,

so there's this sort of
competitive thing together,

you know,
"Who's gonna get there first,

"the Old World or the New World?"

And obviously,
the New World is gonna win.

My name is John Wilson.

This is my sign name.

I work at the National Gallery
as a BSL tour guide and lecturer.

BSL is British Sign Language,

so I deliver information
using the Deaf community's language.

I talk about paintings.

I was born deaf,
and I've been deaf my entire life.

When I'm giving a presentation to
deaf and hearing audience members,

there's a difference.

Deaf people seem
to capture more details.

They notice things
in a very different way.

My favourite painting is called

Exhibition Of A Rhinoceros
At Venice,

and this was painted by
an artist who was born in Venice -

Pietro Longhi.

He was famous for painting
everyday life in Venice,

usually in domestic scenes.

But this painting is
of a rhinoceros named Clara.

When you look around the room,

most of the paintings here
are from Venice,

and they were painted
at similar times.

Most also are outside scenes,

but this one is an interior scene.

So the painting really has
an impact, I think.

There is a wall
with people looking on at the rhino.

They're definitely wealthy -
you can tell that by their clothing.

Some of them have masks on,

and the reason for that is

that Venice always has a carnival
January, February time.

It was traditional to put on masks
and costumes.

I've chosen this painting

because I've always enjoyed
paintings of animals,

and I have great respect
for animals.

It's not a painting
that shows abuse of the animal.

It's not for sport.

It's not being hunted or
being killed for food or clothing.

There are very few paintings
that actually respect the animals,

so this is very different.

And it also shows that science
had started to develop,

and natural history was becoming
a serious subject.

People wanted to know more
about the animals,

and they started to respect them

and saw that they were worthy
of study.

I have some empathy
with the people then.

When I was a little boy, I was deaf.

People would sort of want to
research my deafness,

teach me how to speak.

The people back then
wanted to research Clara

to try to get knowledge
of the animal,

just like people wanted to have
knowledge of my deafness.

So that's it for me -
I have empathy.

The National Gallery's a collection
of around 2,400 paintings,

which date
from the early 13th century

to the early 20th century.

I think, in the early decades
of the National Gallery,

there was a sense that it wasn't
supposed to be representative

of something
we might call "art history".

It was simply to have
the aesthetically finest schools

and the greatest masters

without any need
to be representative

of a particular time
or a particular style.

So, the National Gallery is trying
to work out what its job is,

what it's supposed to collect.

And it's trying to do so

against a background
that's constantly shifting.

Roughly half
the National Gallery collection

is a result of private donations
and especially bequests.

The other half was funded
by general taxation.

In other words,
there's a tranche of money

given by the Treasury every year
to buy works of art.

By around 1900,

as the British aristocracy started
to feel the pinch

of falling agricultural revenues
and death duties in 1894,

they start selling
their great, old master paintings.

It's at that point that
the Americans, Gilded Age oligarchs,

are on the market,
trying to hoover up these paintings.

As a result, the art market for
old masters goes through the roof,

and this annual purchase grant
is now nowhere near enough money.

This is why we get
what's now the Art Fund,

the National Art Collections Fund,

being established in the early years
of the 20th century

to try and save,
as they would put it,

some of the, in a sense,
already the people's pictures.

The public at large does look
to the National Gallery

and expects it to contain works
of art that speak to them

and give them a shared sense
of the potential of human creativity

beyond anything narrowly patriotic
or nationalistic.

My name is Saffron Bowdler,

and I am a marketing executive
here at the National Gallery.

My favourite painting here
is Bacchus And Ariadne by Titian,

which was painted in 1520 to 1523.

The sheer size and scale
of the painting

is the first thing
that drew me to it.

And I think, if anyone was to walk
into this room,

it's really hard to ignore.

You've got this beautiful young man,
or god, Bacchus,

flying from his chariot,

frozen in a moment, in mid-air,
staring longingly

at this beautiful, slightly
dishevelled Cretan princess,

which is Ariadne.

Ariadne's outstretching her hand,
looking quite upset

because there's a tiny little ship
sailing into the distance.

That is her lover, Theseus.

So, she's awoken,

she's realised
that she's been abandoned.

While this is happening
on the left-hand side,

Bacchus storms in
with his musical followers,

crashing, making noise.

There's a lot of hedonism going on,
a lot of kind of ecstasy and frenzy.

He stops instantly
when he sees Ariadne

because he's literally so struck
and overcome with the sensation

of love at first sight.

So this painting basically shows

that exact moment
where love happens.

This is what Titian
was trying to portray,

the moment
when their eyes first lock.

I was very fortunate enough to have
grown up in a very artistic family.

My father was a cavalry officer
but also an artist.

And my whole childhood,

we would create
and paint together all the time.

My parents sadly split
when I was quite young,

and my father would have me
on weekends,

and it was always the case of...
INHALES SHARPLY

Not a lot of money,
what does one do with a little girl?

He didn't see me that much,

so I think he wanted the time to be
quite precious and to make memories.

We would go and look at art.

And the National Gallery was
the first one he ever took me to.

I was probably about five
the first time I came here.

And he would always ask me,
"What do you like about it?

"What don't you like about it?
How does it make you feel?"

And I remember feeling such... pride

in the fact that my father,
who was this trained artist,

was asking me
what I thought about them.

On one of our first trips,

I saw Bacchus And Ariadne
for the first time,

and I remember the feeling that
that painting brought out in me.

It took my breath away.

It was the colour, it was the fact
that she was a princess.

It was quite an epic tale
of abandonment and woe and love,

and I remember just sitting

and feeling very connected
to my father

and also our mutual enjoyment
of art.

So, the relationship
between me and this painting

has actually taken
quite a few different turns.

My father sadly passed away
when I was 12.

And obviously this painting,
for me, is so much of him.

So for a while,
I actually didn't look at it.

I then went to university.

I did History of Art,
and we had to write a dissertation,

and I actually wrote about it.

At the time, I was a new-found woman
in her early 20s.

I was reading a lot
of feminist literature

and basically took the stance of,

"Of course he falls in love
with her instantly.

"But did Ariadne want this?

"Is it the male gaze
that we see this picture through?

"Did she love him?"

So when I then explored it
through that lens,

it was really fascinating.

This painting has travelled with me
through my whole life.

I've looked at it
from many viewpoints.

Now I see it in a context
of just human life

and the complexities
of what it is to be human.

When I look at it,
there's two sides to it.

I see my father in particular,

and that to be a human
is to have both sides.

He was a beautiful man,

charming, charismatic
but a bit of a Peter Pan,

and he did suffer with
alcohol problems and dependencies.

So, again, this picture
has so many layers for me.

Bacchus, this beautiful young man,
who was the god of wine,

so probably excess and ecstasy
and hedonism.

But there's so much love there.

They're not bad.
It's just bad decisions.

Then, on the other side
of the canvas,

you've then got this stillness
and this kind of desire for purity.

And I think my father for many years
found solace in his art.

It's about both of those sides,
which is lightness and dark,

to come together
and be what it is to be human

because we are complex creatures,
we are not perfect.

Artists have brought
onto their canvases

a unique perspective
of human existence.

That's what I just find
so fascinating.

If people say art isn't for them,
it's just very much human stories.

And how can that not be for you?

I'm Kasper Pincis,

and I'm an art handling supervisor
at the National Gallery.

The art handling department

is essentially just
the arms of the gallery.

We're in charge of all the moving
and installation of the collection.

We install the permanent displays,

and we move the paintings
between store, display,

conservation, photography.

And if we're lucky,
we get to travel with them

when we lend them
to other institutions.

I've taken some Tintorettos
to Venice, a Monet to Texas,

and I brought
The Execution of Lady Jane Grey

back from Tokyo.

One of my favourite paintings,
and it's from 1668,

is called Birds, Butterflies
And A Frog Among Plants and Fungi

by Melchior d'Hondecoeter.

It's not been on display much,
maybe a year,

but in the last 20 years,
it's been in storage,

apart from that one year.

Some paintings that we have in store

are probably gonna be there
for a long time

because the collection grows,

things are bequeathed,
and fashions change as well.

So paintings
that everybody loved 100 years ago

are no longer in fashion.

Space is at a premium,

so the curators really have
a tough job choosing what to show

and how to make it fit
into a bigger story.

This painting is slightly dark,
but it's also a bit like a jewel.

It's kind of gleaming there.

The moths and butterflies
are flying away,

and these mushrooms
have been uprooted somehow.

It's trying to show
maybe an unsettled mood

cos these birds seem
to be aggravated by this frog.

But quite nice
that it's just like a microcosm,

and it's a lot of drama
in a small space.

We've got very few paintings
like this.

It's not a still life,
but it's not really a landscape.

There's nothing else
really like it in the collection.

To have something like this
which not only paints animals

but gives them a sort of agency
and makes a little story...

It's just quite fascinating
to imagine

this kind of microcosm
existing in all the landscapes,

just in the corners
that you don't see.

So it feels quite appropriate

to be sort of in the undergrowth
of the gallery.

I'd love to see it
up on the main floor,

and, like, we probably will again
before too long.

It's nice when you see something
that hasn't been up for ages

and having its moment in the sun.

My name is Tracy Jones,

and I'm Head of Communications here
at the National Gallery.

Privileged to work here
for 18 years.

One of my favourite paintings here

is Witches At Their Incantations
by Salvator Rosa,

and it's tucked away in
a slightly dark corner of room 32.

Cos it is just so strange,
scary, spooky and weird,

and I absolutely love that.

People hanging,
people resurrecting corpses,

strange monsters,

people cutting toenails
of people hanging in trees.

I can't work out what's going on,

and that's why
I absolutely adore it.

You have to really step up close
and look at it to get the detail.

It's a very dark painting.

There are brief splashes of colour,

but it's all those
different variations of darkness.

This night-time
on an Italian hillside,

where these acolytes and witches
are gathering

to try and summon Satan.

And that's, I think,
what makes it quite exciting.

I like to look at the painting
from left to right.

You start with the pair of men
exhuming a corpse.

There is a really weird,
veiled figure behind

that's holding onto candles.

Then you move into
the centre of the painting.

You've got these witches
with their cauldrons.

One of them is wringing out a rag.
It's probably blood.

And then you get
to the corpse hanging in the tree

with this really strange angle
of his neck.

What's really great
about the painting

is the mythical monsters
that are in there.

There's this, like, little,
squat, froggy-type character

with a red mouth with lots of teeth.

And you think, "Where the hell
did he get that idea from?"

That's the whole
fascinating thing of this,

is this melting pot
of Salvator Rosa's mind

and what was going on around him
in Florence at that time.

We're talking the middle
of the 17th century.

People were still being tried

and executed for witchcraft
at that point.

It was very, very real,

this fear of the devil,
of Satan, of witchcraft.

A secret pleasure of mine
is I love horror films,

and I'm actually on the committee
of a horror film festival.

So, once a year, I sit and watch
about 150 short films

and help select the 30 or 40
that go into the festival.

And I think this is why this
painting particularly speaks to me

cos you've got all the tropes
of a great horror movie

in this one static image.

My name is Rosy Akalawu-Ellman.

I'm currently studying Art History
at Cambridge in my first year.

In this country, history of art
is kind of presented as something

that's for public schools
and private schools,

and it's constantly dismissed
as a subject for the elite...

..when, in reality,
it's a really important subject

that empowers people to understand
the world around them.

I saw you having
a really, really, good look

about things we noticed.

Would anyone like to share
with the rest of the group,

why do the people in the paintings
not have clothes?

The National Gallery does
a really great job of outreach

to primary schools
and secondary schools

and teaching people
that this is a space for them.

So, it's not great, the lack
of representation on the walls.

There is an issue with the
collection not keeping up with us

as we're so rapidly developing,

and Britishness becomes a far more
complex and multi-layered identity.

There's a lot of scholarship
that has been made and is emerging

that we can use to rethink

what the gallery
is actually capable of doing,

about the importance of exploring
representation within art

and erasing monolithic narratives

of Black people just being slaves
and servants.

My favourite painting
in the National Gallery

is The Execution Of Lady Jane Grey
by Paul Delaroche from 1833.

It kind of links back to my little,
young Rosy obsession with the Tudors

and fixation on Lady Jane Grey
as this nine-day queen.

It's a painting of her execution,

where Bloody Mary came and decided

that it was her time
to take her rightful throne.

Lady Jane Grey was 17
when she was murdered.

She spent more time in prison
building up to her execution

than her actual time on the throne.

It's the melodrama and the emotional
vulnerability of the painting.

Her fingers blindly reaching out
for her final moments.

It's her most vulnerable state
that she's gonna be at.

One of the things
that I always think about

is the fact that she's blindfolded.

And throughout
the whole of art history,

there's an obsession with the gaze,
especially the female gaze,

in the way
that an artist presents it

as, like, an act of submission
or a confrontation

and the way that, as a viewer,
you're interacting with a gaze,

the emotional connection that
you're building with the subject.

And she is gaze-less.
She is blindfolded.

You'd expect it to kind of create
a distance between you and her,

where you're not able to connect
with her, you can't see her eyes.

But, instead, it brings you
even further towards her

as you realise that horrible
stumbling that she's going through.

It's almost like
you're seeing it for her

in a way that she never could.

You're feeling it.

And it's an emotional thing,
her lack of vision,

and you're sharing those emotions.

JONATHAN CONLIN: We really owe
the magnificent site

of the National Gallery

to King George IV's architect
John Nash.

In the 1810s, there are
very ambitious plans being developed

to reconfigure
the Crown Estate lands

to the west and to the north
of what's now Trafalgar Square.

John Nash clearly felt that having,
as in a sense, started in the north,

there was a need
for a grand public space or piazza.

Before the creation
of Trafalgar Square,

there were already
some fine buildings on the site.

One of them was
William Kent's stables,

which had been redeveloped
in the 1730s,

a very impressive facade.

And then there was also James Gibbs'
St Martin's-in-the-Fields.

The original brief
for what became the National Gallery

was to combine room
for the Public Record Office,

room for the Royal Academy,
room for the National Gallery.

So there was a sense in which
they were trying to get

as much as they could out of
this really rather thin building

designed by William Wilkins.

After the National Gallery
moves into its new building in 1838,

there is this open space which
is as yet unnamed in front of it.

And it's only in the mid-1840s

that we see Nelson's Column
being created.

If you stand outside
the National Gallery,

you can look south
over Trafalgar Square

and see the Houses of Parliament.

You also have Canada House,
symbol of the British dominions.

If you look the other way,
you head down the Strand,

one of the major streets
linking the Cities of Westminster

to the City of London.

So it really is the heart
of the nation's capital,

indeed the place from which

distances across the kingdom
have, for centuries,

before the foundation
of the gallery, been measured.

Hello, my name is Claudia Winkleman,

and I read out loud
on the television,

but I have a secret love
and history with art.

My love of art came
from my brilliant dad

who decided that he would bring me

to the National Gallery
every weekend.

And the only rule was

that we were only allowed
to look at one painting.

And we would stand
in front of a painting

and really talk about it -

sometimes for 40 minutes,
sometimes for half an hour.

The brilliance
of that one painting rule

is it leaves you wanting more.

And I'm now 52,
and I've used art as a soother.

Some people have a teddy,

some people listen to music,
some people go for a walk.

I like coming here
and just looking at one piece.

So, the painting I've chosen

is Leonardo da Vinci,
and it's Virgin Of The Rocks.

What strikes you first

is the atmosphere of it,
the feel of it,

which is otherworldly
yet entirely human.

The figures are otherworldly
because of who they are.

So they can't look like us,

but their expressions
are unbelievably human.

I think it's the adoration
of the young Jesus,

and he is blessing John the Baptist
in return.

And it is a beautiful triangle.

Mary stands over it
like the top of the pyramid.

I love her right hand
on John the Baptist,

which is firm but also kind.

And she is in the presence
of the most beautiful

and most ethereal and serene
character in maybe all of art,

the Archangel.

You're watching a moment.

You're really privileged
to be able to see it,

whether you are religious
or whether you're not.

Leonardo is the king.

What a brain, what a man.
He was desperate for information.

He was curious.
His drawings are so beautiful.

And I should come out with it
and say I like the big hitters,

and I think that's why
I was drawn to him.

What's extraordinary about Leonardo,
and I also love this,

is he didn't paint a lot.

But you know it's him
when you see it.

And that alone
is pretty breathtaking.

I love the fact
how it's just so dark.

Look at Mary's face,
how much is cast in shadow,

and the angel's face.

And the two children,

you see them perfectly,
but it's not cut-out.

It's not crystal clear.

Not every piece of fabric or a face
is given the same amount of light.

What technique.
And it changed the history of art.

It's the boldness.

I like the fact that he's like,

"Yeah, do you know what?
That's just gonna be in shadow.

"Deal with that, guys."

Extraordinary in 1508.
Revolutionary.

So the fact that it's mysterious
is what I love most.

The fifth character in this painting
is the landscape.

There are huge spaces on that canvas
made up of landscape,

and that feels brave.

It's like the best writing.

You don't need
all the flowery words.

We'll just have that.

So it draws you in.

This is how I feel
about beautiful works.

There is an awful lot of chat

about how we feel about the world
and ourselves,

a growing obsession with the self,

people endlessly questioning
how THEY'RE doing.

But I think the thing you can do

to make yourself feel much better
about all kinds of things

is take yourself out of you.

Stand in front of a painting,

and you will breathe
a little deeper,

and you will feel a little happier.

There is nothing like standing
in front of a work of art.

The minutiae is swept away

when you are faced
by true skill and beauty.

My name is Stacey Smith,

and I'm a membership
and commercial services assistant.

My favourite painting
in the National Gallery

is The Ambassadors
by Hans Holbein the Younger,

painted in 1533.

The first time
I saw The Ambassadors,

I was with my grandad.

I think I was about 12.

In the middle of the painting
was just a big ugly blob,

and I couldn't understand
what it was, why it was there

and why someone would paint
something so detailed and beautiful

and then do something
seemingly so strange.

And then my grandad took hold of me

and just dragged me
all the way round to the right.

And I was like, "It's not a blob,
it's a skull."

And it just popped out.

I remember, I look around the room,

and other people were looking at the
painting straight on, and I'm like,

"Oh, my God,
I know something you don't.

"I see something
you can't see right now."

And it was
the most thrilling moment.

I didn't see the painting again
until I started working here,

and I have learned a lot about it

in the years
since seeing it with my grandad.

Hans Holbein the Younger,
at the time,

was the court painter
to Henry VIII.

The whole reason for this painting
is a message to the King of France

that there was religious strife
in England

because Henry had separated
from Catherine of Aragon

and married Anne Boleyn.

And in doing so,
he had declared himself

the head of the Church of England.

He has painted two men.

On the left is Jean de Dinteville,
who was the French ambassador.

And on the right
is Georges de Selve,

the Bishop of Lavaur,
who was a very good friend of Jean.

Jean could not write
to the King of France

and tell him what was happening

because his correspondence
was being opened and read.

So he had to figure a way around it,
and this painting is how he did it.

One of my favourite ways to describe
the painting is like an escape room.

There are clues that can unlock it,
and each clue unlocks the next.

I think Holbein included
the crucifix in the top left

as a signal that spiritual
difficulties were being revealed.

And there is a lute
that has a broken string,

to signify discord.

The music that is in the book
cannot be played

because the string
that would play that note is broken,

and the note appears several times,

so it would become
immediately obvious

to anyone who could play music.

The attention to detail in the
clothes is just absolutely stunning.

I could put my face
into that fur on his coat

and know exactly
how it feels on my cheeks.

Jean's motto was "memento mori".

Remember, one day you will die.

And the skull was a way
of including that motto.

The reason this is
my favourite painting

is because it is a painting
my granddad and I bonded over.

When I come here,
it's like he never left,

he never passed away.

And if I stand,
and I look at my blob...

..it's like
he's right behind me again.

JONATHAN CONLIN: One of the exciting
things about the National Gallery

is, I think,
when it was first created,

it was such a novel idea to have
a collection created and housed

at the expense of all taxpayers

that when it opened its doors
in 1824,

I really think the trustees
had no idea who was gonna show up.

They wanted it to be open for free
to everyone,

as the British Museum had been.

This is the time
when there's a good deal

of hunger and political unrest.

So there really was a great fear

that the public might attack
the paintings on display.

There was therefore
a great deal of relief

that not only
that lots of people were visiting

who were not just of the elite,

but that those members of the
middle class and some working class

were recognising
that these paintings

were their property
in a sense as well.

And certainly, when we look
at guides to the National Gallery

provided for the working class,

there's a strong emphasis
on going there in your own free time

to educate yourself
and to improve yourself.

But it's only really
in the mid to late 19th century

that something
that we might call art history,

to understand how styles
or how tastes

or how human creativity
has evolved over time.

That really wasn't there
in the early decades.

For artists, the National Gallery
was a particularly precious resource

in that it was a place
where they could go

and copy original works
after the great masters.

That, I think,
changes by the late 19th century,

where the copyists
are really producing copies

of popular paintings
for people to hang on their walls.

We know the most copied painting
in the late 19th century

was Dignity And Impudence
by Edwin Landseer,

which is now in Tate Britain,

which was, among a large proportion
of the National Gallery's public,

the most important painting,
the most popular painting.

I'm Gracie Divall,

and I was an exhibitions manager
for National Touring.

It's about getting
these amazing paintings

that belong to absolutely everybody
in the entirety of the UK

out of London
and making them accessible

all across the United Kingdom
for people to come and enjoy.

My favourite artwork
in the National Gallery's collection

is Artemisia Gentileschi's

Self-Portrait
As Saint Catherine Of Alexandria,

and it was the very first artwork

that we took out
on a National Gallery Visits tour.

This painting
is really special to me,

partly because it is one of only
21 artworks by a female artist

in the National Gallery's
collection.

It's not for a lack of wanting
to collect work by women

that the gallery is so poor
in these artworks.

But in the collecting period,
you know, of going up to 1910,

women were not given
these opportunities,

and women were not able
to be artists in this way.

So for there to be these artworks

by women who completely
broke the mould,

who had this passion and this drive,

and they were able to do things

that they might not have been
supported to do,

it's just absolutely fantastic.

Although this is a self-portrait,

Artemisia has painted herself
as Saint Catherine,

who was a young Christian girl
put to death at the age of 18.

But when they went
to put Catherine to death,

they strapped her to a
Catherine wheel, the torture device.

And when they strapped her to it,
the wheel broke,

and so they had to move forward
and behead her instead.

Saint Catherine was made then
a saint by Joan of Arc.

So Artemesia is presenting herself
as this resilient woman.

She's being someone else,

but there's so much
of sort of her back story

that parallels this idea of a woman
breaking the mould,

of a woman standing up
for what she believes in.

We know of Artemisia
as this amazing artist,

but she also overcame
great adversity.

Aged 17, she was raped
by a friend of her father's,

and really unusually for the time,
this was taken to court.

During the court case,
she was tortured

to try and get her to say
that she was not telling the truth.

She still stuck completely
to her story.

And her rapist was convicted,
but not of rape,

but of deflowering of property
of her father.

But throughout all of this,
she carried on painting,

and she believed in herself
as a person and as a painter.

And that sort of resilience
really comes through

in her artwork as well.

She's looking directly at us.

In some ways,
it's quite a defiant glance.

She's present.
It's not a demure woman.

It is somebody who is ready
to engage with us.

That could be my friend Artemisia.

And we did, we've travelled
the country together,

meeting different people
everywhere we've gone.

We placed her in a GP surgery,
in a school and into libraries.

And there we were able to tell

completely different stories
about this artwork,

as a saint, as a resilient woman

who did things at a time
that no other woman could,

as a woman who'd been let down
by a justice system,

who had confidence
in her own ability

and how she can really inspire
people today.

One of the most unique places
that we took Artemisia

was to a women's prison.

And it was absolutely amazing
to see this artwork there

and to see the inmates interact
with this artwork

and be inspired
by Artemisia's story.

One of the comments that has stayed
with me forever is a woman saying,

"I'd like to say sorry to Artemisia
that so little has changed,

"that women still don't have
the opportunities."

And her story, 400 years later,

was still so poignant
to these women.

That is just something
that art can do.

It can bring us together
across those time gaps.

I really think the women there
were so inspired,

and hopefully they will carry

a little bit of that resilience
with them.

I'm Terry Gilliam.

I'm a film director,
but before I was a film director,

I was the animator
on Monty Python's Flying Circus.

MUSIC: 'The Liberty Bell'

Back in '69, when Python began,
I was here quite often.

I mean, at least
every couple of weeks, I think,

because I was always desperate
for inspiration

for things I could steal.

If I found a character
that I wanted to use,

I would go down to the gift shop

and buy, hopefully,
a poster or a book with them in

and then photograph it, blow it up,
manipulate it in my own way,

and, bingo, off we went.

My favourite painting in the gallery

is Bronzino's Allegory
Of Venus, Cupid And Folly.

It became very quickly
the Python foot

right from the moment
I first saw the painting.

My eyes drifted
down to that bottom left corner,

and the little dove,

and the foot is about to crush it,
it looked like to me.

But I thought it's a great
punctuation for my animations

to bring to a halt
whatever was going on. Boom!

And I love the idea that the foot
belonged to Cupid, to love.

And what a better way to be crushed,
than by love.

The painting itself just pops,

and it pops
with a great, beautiful naked woman.

You realise, "Wait, this is not
a normal nude painting."

Most of them are lying gracefully
and languorously, beautifully.

This, there's action going on there.

Then you realise the little boy
is Cupid and she is Venus.

This is son and mother.

This is very strange,
what's happening here.

And I think it's very erotic.

I had to become older
before I realised

that "venereal disease"
comes from "Venus",

it's all based on her.

And that's what this painting
is also about.

Syphilis was ravaging Europe.

What Bronzino is doing
is playing a kind of a game,

a little puzzle, a riddle.

What is going on? Because everything
there means something.

Venus is love, the goddess of love.

Cupid, I suppose,
is the messenger of love.

Then there's this lovely face.

And she's offering honeycomb
in one hand,

and the other hand
is holding her scorpion sting.

It's like, "OK, I'm here,
aren't I sweet? But watch out."

And that is syphilis.

In fact, medically,
it's quite accurate.

Teeth are falling out,
the knuckles are enlarged,

which is what syphilis does.

Now, the question is,
has she got Cupid's arrow

to stop him from spreading
her disease?

He spreads love
with shooting his arrow

into the hearts of young couples.

So that's the thing.

Is this a warning
about the dangers of syphilis?

Everything is hinted at.

And I think that's
a very special, unique painting.

I'd like to be able to make cartoons
that look as good as that.

CHUCKLES

In World War II,
most museums in Britain

simply evacuated the collection,
usually to a Welsh slate mine,

and closed their doors.

The National Gallery
is one important exception to that.

The then director, Kenneth Clark,

enthusiastically welcomed
a suggestion

by someone who wrote in
to the editor of The Times,

proposing that a then
recently acquired Rembrandt

be temporarily placed on display
at Trafalgar Square

so that the people could admire

their latest addition
to their collection.

And, as a result of that, the
so-called "one picture shows" began,

in which every two months,

two paintings would be sent down
from the Welsh slate mine,

where the collection
had been evacuated,

and one work a month
was put on show.

Every time
there was an air raid warning,

the painting
would be taken off the wall

and rushed downstairs
to a special safe

where it would be protected
in case the gallery was bombed.

And at the same time,

Myra Hess had organised
a series of free lunchtime concerts.

PIANO MUSIC PLAYS

So the rest of the gallery
already, in a sense,

had a captive audience -
people who were starved of concerts

because the musical life of
the nation had also come to a halt.

So the National Gallery
became the one place

where, as it were, the guttering
flame of culture was still burning.

And so many of the thousands
who came to the concert

would also admire the one work
of art that was on display.

I am Eugenie,
and I work at Hauser & Wirth,

a contemporary gallery in London.

I did art at school.
I always wanted to be an artist.

I remember going
to the National Gallery

and just sitting and drawing,
and now when I go around a gallery,

I see all the young people
doing that,

and I'm like, "I used to do that."

And I wish I could find my drawings
from those moments

where I was a student
right in the front,

studying and looking and learning
all about history in art.

I found myself in rooms
in the National Gallery

with all these stories
and all these artists

who put a piece of themselves
out there

and a piece of history
and a bit of life.

But you don't need to have learnt
the history of art

to understand art.

Art can be anything.
Art can mean anything to you.

Like the painting
we're gonna talk about.

It means something to me because
of where I am in my life now.

I've chosen Correggio,
Madonna Of The Basket,

and it's from 1524.

Madonna and child has been painted
a million times

and we've seen it everywhere.

This one stuck out to me

because of the very relaxed
and ethereal nature

of this beautiful
mother-and-child bond.

I see a lot of similarities
with this and my life.

I've just had a second child,
and my little baby's ten months.

Correggio is painting
a very domestic scene.

This is a normal domestic family.

It's something so personal
and so beautiful

to see them like this
rather than in opulence

or really heralded as these figures
that transcend history.

She's just looking after her child,

and she's struggling like a mum
would, putting on his little jacket.

And I know how that feels.

He looks like he's about
to take on the enormity of his task

with his hand and his gestures,
but he's also with his mummy.

At this moment, it's a mum having
put down her tools in the basket

and picked up her baby.

She's laid down her job for a minute
to look after her baby

and I think, looking at this now,

it's like women, they have babies,
they go to work.

She's kind of representing that,
but in 1524.

I think it's interesting
to note Joseph,

sort of in the shadows
in the background,

and she's the protagonist,

and she's always been
the protagonist.

This painting is a very intimate,
very beautiful moment

before the world overtook Jesus
and everything that went on.

So it resonated with me
in that sense.

It's just incredible to understand

that this painter did this painting
all those years ago,

and now it stands in front of us,

and who knows the journey
it's been on and how it got to us.

But it's here,
and we are able to admire it.

I'm Gabriele Finaldi, and I'm the
director of the National Gallery.

My favourite painting
in the National Gallery

is Bartolome Bermejo's Saint Michael
Triumphant Over The Devil.

It was painted in 1468.

The opportunity arose to acquire it
in the mid-1990s,

and it was
the first really significant

medieval, Early Renaissance Spanish
picture that entered the collection.

It's a scene showing Saint Michael,

this sort of dancing,
beautifully lithe and elegant angel,

with these multicoloured wings
spread open,

and he's about to strike this demon.

Also, you have the donor
of the painting,

that's the person who has basically
paid for the picture.

He's Antoni Joan.
He's a wealthy military leader.

And he's the lord
of a little town called Tous,

which is where the picture
comes from.

He's at prayer.

And Bermejo has worked
very, very carefully

so that we can actually see
what it is he's praying.

They're penitential psalms.

And clearly, Antoni Joan is thinking
about what's going to happen

at the end of his earthly life.

And he's turning to Saint Michael,
who will offer him protection.

Bermejo wants to represent the devil

in as terrifying a way
as he possibly can.

It's very difficult for us
to put ourselves

into the mind of the 15th century.

There's no electric light,
so when darkness comes,

darkness can be very frightening,

and you live in a town
where there are wild animals,

there are wolves, there are bears.

Life outside of the warmth
of the centre of the village

can be very terrifying.

People saw a lot of dark forces
at work in the natural world.

So what Bermejo does is he brings
together several elements.

The teeth of a wolf,
the wings of a bat,

which sort of mix up
with the wings of a butterfly.

There are snakes.
The big glowing eyes.

All this is brought together
to create a sort of chimera.

I think there's a glamour
to the way the picture is painted.

I think anyone can appreciate
the extraordinary invention,

the enormous technical skill.

I mean, if you look at the way
he does the gilding

and the toolwork on the gilding,

the way he represents reflections
on the surface of the armour.

And if you particularly look
at the breastplate,

you'll see that there are areas

where the pearls are reflected
on the breastplate itself.

But also, you'll see
a reflection of a city.

It's very likely a reflection
of the heavenly Jerusalem,

of which Saint Michael
is the sort of guardian.

So there's an element
to the narrative there

that the artist
has very skilfully introduced

into the representation
of the armour.

That ability to represent
shine and reflection

in a way
which is totally convincing,

but also to use it to say something

about the sort of divine subject
matter, is absolutely brilliant.

And you think,
"Goodness, this painting is,

"you know, nearly 600 years old."

It is astonishing that across time,
these works can still appeal to us.

They can still mesmerise us,
they seduce us.

We want to know more.

When you look at the presentation
of the collection,

people often think
it's relatively static,

and it's not static at all.

It changes all the time.

And often, it's around how
you can best engage with the art.

All of those changes, I think,
over the years

have been about how do they balance

the art historical narrative
of the whole gallery

with the experience
that you might want to have

with an individual artwork.

Originally, the National Gallery
was organised by school.

So the idea was there would be
a section of the building

for the British School,

starting with the early works,
ending with Turner.

You then, as it were, jump back

by moving into the start
of the French School,

through to the impressionists
and postimpressionists.

Then you would enter the Dutch
School, again jumping back in time.

That really changes
under Neil MacGregor in the 1990s.

It became much more about bringing
different European schools together

so that you would have all the works
from the Early Renaissance,

whether they were produced
north of the Alps

or south of the Alps,
displayed together.

The other big change
that there has been

is in the way the signals,
the cues,

that the decor
and the layout of the institution

is giving you on how the pictures
are to be enjoyed.

In the 1960s and '70s,

there was a real turn away
from the Victorian idea

of the National Gallery as a palace.

And we see the very high ceilings

having suspended ceilings
placed in there

or, indeed, having buttresses

visually divide up a large gallery
into a series of smaller spaces.

So the thinking here was, really,
that experiencing a work of art

was quite an intimate,
personal experience,

that visitors needed to be given
quiet spaces

where footfall was muted.

Under Neil MacGregor
it became much more an idea

of visiting as a social activity,

that we should be aware that even
when we're enjoying the work of art,

that we are doing so
as member of a public.

And certainly, that's involved
bringing back a lot of the marble

and the more magnificent spaces

that have now led some -

and this is a pendulum
that will swing forever, I think -

to argue that it's too intimidating
a space for people

who will never otherwise encounter

an environment quite as apparently
opulent and perhaps alienating

as this revived Victorian splendour.

People were coming
into the gallery space,

they were not seeing
a reflection of their lives.

What they were seeing
was a reflection

of the lives of the elite.

However, I think what we are trying
to do now is trying to say,

"Well, actually, though, there are
different stories that can be told

"around these paintings,"

not necessarily one version
of this history.

'My name is Fiona Alderton.

'I am a gallery educator
and storyteller

'here at the National Gallery.

'I work in the learning department
with all audiences,

'from very small children,

'right up to delivering
talks and lectures

'for the public programme.'

As educators,
we want people to find their way

as well as giving them information
about a painting.

But it's really important
that people inform their own ideas

of what the painting might be about.

Does anyone have any thoughts
as to who that might be?

CROWD MEMBER: Diana?
Diana. And who was Diana?

'You walk into a gallery space,
you can look at something,

'and it really is
about how something makes you feel.

'You may never have seen it before.'

You might know nothing about the
artist or the time it was painted,

but something about that painting
speaks to you,

and that's really powerful.

My favourite painting
in the National Gallery

is a work by French artist
Elisabeth-Louise Vigee Le Brun.

It was painted in 1782, and it is
called Self Portrait In A Straw Hat.

I think it was really just looking
at her expression, at her face,

the way that
she's looking out to us, the viewer.

And there was
really something about that

that really just drew me in.

I just wanted to know more and more

about who she was
and why she painted it.

Vigee Le Brun was born in 1752,
in Paris.

Her father was a painter,

and he really encouraged her
to draw and to paint.

She was painting herself

because she's wanting
to perhaps market herself.

She starts getting a name
for herself at quite a young age,

and she does come into the realm
of the courts of Marie Antoinette,

the Queen at the time.

And she creates around 30 portraits
of the Queen and her children.

We have to think about the context
of this, the time,

this is pre-French Revolution.

So part of Vigee Le Brun's task

was to really think about softening
the image of the Queen

for the public there.

Because she's so involved
with the court,

with the queen, et cetera,

she really is a bit of a target
for the revolutionaries.

And she managed to flee France

before the King and Queen
are hauled off to be executed.

She's in exile for 12 years.

She's travelling around, and her
reputation really has preceded her.

When we think back to other periods,
women were creating art,

but they were excluded from,
perhaps, creating the big history

or mythological
or religious paintings

because they were excluded

from going to life drawing classes,
for example.

So then women were painting
still life paintings,

or perhaps portraiture,
and then maybe using themselves,

as Vigee le Brun does,
as a model herself.

She's looking out to us.

She really wants to engage
with the viewer.

And she absolutely is telling us
that not only is she a woman,

but she's also an artist,
quite literally.

She's holding her palette,

and she's holding her brushes
in her hand.

I think when people walk in

and they might notice
some of the bigger paintings,

or they're looking
at perhaps the seascapes,

and they move on because I think
they just look at it and think,

"Yes, a beautiful woman."

They don't even have any thought
about the fact

that she may have painted it
herself.

And you start giving
that little bit of story

about her as a woman, as an artist,

people are really keen
to look her up further

or to find out
where her other paintings are.

She's absolutely
one of my favourite artists.

I'm Robert Raynard.

I'm a visitor assistant
at the National Gallery.

My favourite painting is

A Girl At A Window
by Louis-Leopold Boilly.

It was made in 1799.

The first time I saw
A Girl At A Window,

it was my very first day

as a visitor assistant
at the gallery.

I was struck by the colours,
or the lack of colours.

I was unsure whether
I was looking at

a black and white painting
or a print.

I still find the character
quite powerful,

in the sense that I don't know
what's on her mind.

I don't know how she's feeling.

Sad, upset or curious.

I also find her slightly unsettling
because she does not really smile.

There are many questions
that we can ask.

Do the characters and the fish
and the bird echo one another?

The fish in a small bowl, trapped,
caught in this limited environment.

And the birds?

I'm not sure whether
it's one or two birds.

If there's two,
the other one is in the shadow.

The boy also seems to be
in the shadow.

So possibly an echo of the bird.

It seems to me that they could
all be prisoners in their own space

and may be eager
to get out of this space.

This is my favourite painting
because it makes me ask questions

and discover a new world in art.

One question we have today when
we live so much of our lives online

is to imagine
if we were given the brief

that the founding generation
of trustees and parliamentarians had

to bring together great works of art

and share them with
as wide an audience as possible,

would we even build a building?

Might we go straight
to building a website

or some other interactive
virtual space?

However, it's not a substitute

for the actual experience
of works of art.

It's really a way
in which people can be primed,

can become curious
about the experience of encounter

with a real work of art.

I certainly think while we do spend
a lot of our times

in virtual spaces,

there's a greater emphasis now
on experiences.

I think we recognise
that the kind of authenticity,

the kind of intensity that we demand
from those experiences

is something that artificial worlds
and digital worlds

can't fully provide.

My name is Jacqueline Wilson,
and I write children's books.

I've written over 100 books.

I absolutely love
the National Gallery.

I first went there
as a very little girl.

My dad took me on a day trip,

and we looked mostly
at the Canalettos.

And I think that was
because he'd been a draughtsman,

and he rather liked
the detail of the buildings.

Later on,
when I was in my early teens,

I had a unfortunate accident
with my front teeth

and I had to keep going
to the Royal Hospital of Dentists,

which was in Leicester Square.

And so I thought, "I'll go over
the road to the National Gallery

"and just wander round and look
at some paintings for comfort."

And I adored the impressionists

because, you know,
what could be easier,

more pleasant, so bright colours?

I've chosen The Umbrellas
by Pierre-Auguste Renoir,

painted in the 1880s.

I love that era because women
are becoming more able to see

that there are other things
to do in life

other than be
the angel of the house,

or mother's grown-up,
dutiful daughter.

I loved the fashion.

I loved the expressions
on people's faces.

I liked the pattern
of the umbrellas.

It was just a joyful painting,

but it seemed to be telling me
a story.

The young woman without the umbrella
is staring out,

and she's got this expression
on her face.

It's mysterious,
as if she's got a secret.

And as if you, the viewer,
are going to be let in on it.

I do like there to be
a strong narrative in a painting,

and, if there isn't one,
I make it up.

I thought everybody else
seems quite intent

on putting their umbrellas up
or being under their umbrellas.

And then I imagined a gale.

The wind actually starts
lifting under their umbrellas,

and then they all fly away
over the rooftops of Paris.

And the girl is left with the viewer

sort of smiling at each other,
you know, completely safe.

I certainly feel
that this working-class young woman

is the one I identify with,

and interestingly for me,

I see that she's got wonderful
sort of dark red hair.

Perhaps a little tiny snapshot
of this woman stayed inside my head

till many, many, many years later,
I invented my Hetty Feather,

who was a girl
of a similar social status.

And it's hard to identify

with the posh little girls,
all prettied up.

I think if you're a girl like
this one, you have far more fun.

I know there's a whole movement
against Renoir.

And I found a quote that he said,

when accused of painting rather
luscious young nudes or whatever,

he's saying, "I like pretty things.

"Why shouldn't I paint
pretty things?"

And, yeah, I agree. Why not?

I'm Peter Murphy.
I'm currently a piano teacher.

I used to be a television producer,

but then I got
a dreadful drug habit,

and that changed my life
dramatically.

I'm passionate about coming
to the National Gallery,

and looking at pictures
played a huge part

in my recovery from addiction.

There's nothing more exciting

than walking
into this extraordinary space,

and it's something
I didn't understand

when I first started
coming to galleries

and realising
that there was this secret world

that I could come
and discover for myself.

You don't need to be posh.

You don't need to be highly educated
and bookish.

These pictures are ravishing.
They're gorgeous.

The painting that has
most significance for me

is Bellini's Madonna Of The Meadow.

Painted around 1500 to 1505.

And it's the most lovely picture
of a mother and a child

sitting in a field

in a translucent spring morning
and a lovely landscape behind it.

I'll never forget the first time
I encountered

the Madonna Of The Meadow.

I had finally faced up to the fact

that I was in big trouble with drugs
and I couldn't stop.

And I went to my first
Narcotics Anonymous meeting

and after the meeting, I was
completely confused, emotional,

and I found myself here,
at the National Gallery.

I was drawn to this Bellini.

And I stood
in front of this picture,

and it was the oddest sensation.

I was so struck

by the sheer enormous stature
of this woman.

She towers over the baby.
She towers over the landscape.

The first thing you notice
is this pyramid shape

that the Madonna makes,
and a pyramid is very stable.

I was really intrigued.

I couldn't get the picture
out of my mind,

and I thought, "Am I going mad?"

Is it something to do with
the drugs, coming off the drugs?

But I knew there was a meaning.

And the more I looked,
the more it gave up its secrets.

I was deeply touched
by the tilt of her head.

She's holding her hands like this.

And it's almost like prayer,

but she looks like
she's holding the baby's head.

And I suddenly realised,
she's holding the baby's mind.

And I knew this was a picture
of secure attachment

between a mother and a baby.

The attachment that means
that you can develop,

you can grow up,
you can be anything,

if you're safe and loved.

That baby lying in her lap
was safe and loved.

It really began to dawn on me that
that was something I never had.

I'm the eldest of four children,
and my mother couldn't mother.

She gave me to her sister.

I was brought up by my aunt
for the first years,

and I was always very confused
as to who my mother was.

I've never felt loved,

and it was seeing
this vital connection

painted all those centuries ago.

I stood in front of the picture
and I cried.

I was so ashamed at having
got into trouble with drugs.

And I realised, looking
at the picture, that I wasn't bad.

It wasn't my fault.

And I think that's the amazing thing
about pictures.

That's a religious painting,
but for me, it was a human painting.

I am fascinated that the painting

can speak to me so personally
after all these years.

I don't think Bellini

could have been that different
from us, people then,

and I'm fascinated
by that link between the past.

And I think that's something
that art shows us,

that we've got more in common
with each other

in our very basic humanity.

I'll tell you something.

I would not have uncovered
the secrets of that Bellini

had the National Gallery
not been free.

Because I came every day
for months and months and months,

and I stood quietly
in front of the picture,

and that was a real luxury.

Can you imagine if you had
to pay 15 euros or something,

or £25 to go into the gallery?

You wouldn't do it.

It's my club.
LAUGHS

It's my National Gallery,
and I belong here.

I feel like I've come home.

TANNOY: 'Hello, this
is a visitor announcement.

'We hope you've enjoyed
your visit today.

'The gallery closes at 6pm,

'and our cloakrooms, gift shops,
cafes and toilets

'will be closing shortly.

'The National Gallery
will be open again tomorrow at 10am.

'Thank you,
and have a lovely evening.'

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