Wright of Derby: Shadows, Science, and a Suffocating Cockatoo – A Deep Dive Review
Imagine stumbling upon a scene that's equal parts eerie and enchanting, where a shadowy figure lurks under a silvery moonlit sky, wielding a shovel like he's plotting something sinister. Is he hiding a corpse or piecing together a monster? This gripping image comes from Joseph Wright of Derby's An Earthstopper on the Banks of the Derwent, and it hooks you right from the start, drawing you into the mysteries of 18th-century art and science. But here's where it gets controversial: what if this seemingly villainous act isn't about horror at all, but about the clash between human compassion and the brutal realities of hunting? Let's unravel this painting and the artist's world together, exploring how Wright's work bridges beauty and dread in ways that still resonate today. And this is the part most people miss – the hidden scientific undercurrents that make his art a window into Enlightenment-era wonders and warnings.
At first glance, the man in the painting appears downright mischievous, toiling away in the dead of night amidst trees and clouds bathed in the full moon's stark silver and black hues. Could he be burying evidence of a crime, or perhaps exhuming parts for some mad experiment, a la Frankenstein? After all, Wright was close pals with trailblazing scientists and industrial innovators from the Lunar Society of Birmingham – a group of forward-thinking minds who championed the emerging scientific revolution that later fueled Mary Shelley's gothic masterpiece. Yet, surprisingly, this figure by the rushing, frothy waters of the River Derwent isn't scavenging body parts. Instead, he's committing an act that feels downright wicked by today's ethical standards: sealing off a fox den to trap the animals inside, making them easy prey for the next day's hunt. It's a stark reminder of how societal norms have evolved, and maybe Wright felt a pang of sympathy for the foxes himself, because the painting exudes an undeniable creepiness. Still, it captivates with its hypnotic allure. Through two brilliant sources of light – a flickering lantern and the glowing moon – Wright transforms this nocturnal landscape into something vibrant and alive. You can almost hear the leaves whispering in the breeze, the water tumbling over rocks, and the spade thudding into the earth. Painting daytime scenes is one thing, but Wright elevates night scenes to a fantastical level, making them pulse with unseen energy – a technique that feels like early cinematic magic for beginners to visualize.
The National Gallery's exhibition, which shines a spotlight on Wright's depictions of darkness and light, positions him as the pioneer of gothic art. Gothic novels burst onto the scene when Horace Walpole published The Castle of Otranto in 1764, and Wright was right there in the 1760s and 1770s, capturing his own expeditions into the night's terrors on canvas. But the chilling core of these works isn't rooted in the supernatural; it's firmly planted in science. Take A Philosopher by Lamplight, for instance – a scene where two young adventurers stumble upon a cave illuminated by a single, lonely candle, their faces twisted in horror as they gaze at an elderly man manipulating a skeleton, holding up a bony leg while the skull's empty sockets seem to stare back. This hermit is no villain; he's a philosopher grappling with the mysteries of death. And here's the profound, somewhat unsettling revelation: the answer to what happens after death is simply... nothing. As science gained traction in 18th-century Europe, offering a rational lens to decode the natural world, radical thinkers like Wright's friend Erasmus Darwin – grandfather of Charles Darwin – began questioning whether God himself was fading from the picture. It's a bold, game-changing idea that might make you pause and wonder: if science erodes old beliefs, what new ethics emerge in their place?
In The Blacksmith’s Shop, the fiery glow of the forge illuminates a crumbling structure – a workshop tucked inside a classical temple adorned with Corinthian pillars. This isn't accidental; it's a nod to Renaissance nativity scenes where stables often doubled as decayed Roman temples, symbolizing the end of paganism and the dawn of Christianity. So, what could this symbolize in Wright's modern twist? It's a clear metaphor for the birth of the material, industrial world rising from the ruins of Christian traditions. Imagine the blacksmith's hammer echoing the march of progress, forging not just metal, but a new era of human ingenuity. And speaking of progress, Wright's masterpiece A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery in which a Lamp Is Put in Place of the Sun practically begs us to open our eyes to the universe's true wonders through science. For those new to this, an orrery is a mechanical model that replicates the solar system's movements – think of it as an early 3D simulator of planets orbiting the sun. The National Gallery thoughtfully provides a real orrery beside the painting for a hands-on comparison, making the experience interactive and enlightening.
What makes Wright's painted orrery so mesmerizing is its clever play with perspective. Viewed up close, the model dwarfs the wide-eyed children gathered around it in a dimly lit library, making the cosmos feel infinite and awe-inspiring. Step back, though, and it shrinks to the size of a toy, dwarfed by the lecturer and the attentive note-taker beside him. The scientist casts a skeptical glance, while a elegantly dressed woman in a hat and jewels looks somewhat dazed. Compared to the kids, brimming with unfiltered curiosity, these adults seem less thrilled – almost jaded by the spectacle. It's a subtle critique: maybe we adults lose that spark of wonder as we age, and sometimes, it takes a shock to reignite it.
Enter shock tactics. Wright's orrery canvas, part of a stellar collection from Derby Museum reunited with the National Gallery's treasures, pairs beautifully with his other scientific showstopper, An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump. Created just two years later, this piece pivots from marvel to menace. A young girl buries her face in horror, unable to watch as the lecturer prepares to create a vacuum in a glass chamber, dooming the white cockatoo trapped inside. Wright infuses this experiment with gritty realism, using stark light piercing the shadows to sculpt objects and spaces in vivid detail. The central machine, with its sturdy wooden frame and gleaming brass components, evokes the steam engines that Lunar Society members like Matthew Boulton were refining – remember his famous quote: 'I sell here, Sir, what all the world desires to have: power!'
The painting's crowd includes local aristocracy in a opulent Georgian mansion, yet the real power isn't in their aristocratic grasp. It's wielded by the scientist, who peers out at us like an 18th-century Oppenheimer, poised to turn the handle and unleash destruction. Wright doesn't condemn science outright; instead, he intuitively senses its transformative force, destined to reshape their world – and ours – as irreversibly as the bird's fate. Candlelight from behind bathes a glass jar in an ethereal, almost radioactive glow, casting a skull in eerie luminescence. Intended as a logical demonstration of vacuum principles, it morphs into a haunting theater of science, authority, harshness, and mortality. Perhaps that wide-eyed young girl, unable to avert her gaze, is mentally crafting her own gothic tale, inspired by the scene's dark undercurrents.
In wrapping up, Wright's art doesn't just depict the Enlightenment's triumphs; it whispers warnings about its shadows, blending scientific awe with ethical dilemmas that feel strikingly modern. Do you think Wright was ahead of his time in foreshadowing science's double-edged sword, or is that a stretch? Could his sympathy for animals, like the foxes and the cockatoo, hint at an early environmental conscience? What controversies do you see in balancing progress with compassion today – nuclear power, genetic engineering, or AI? Share your thoughts in the comments; I'd love to hear agreements, disagreements, or even counterpoints on how art like this still sparks debate in our tech-driven age!
