Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney at The Wallace Collection
The presentation of man's best friend is spotlighted at this exhibition, running until 15th October...
April 6, 2023
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
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By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
“The poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Masters own.”
So reads the Epitaph to Boatswain, Lord Byron’s beloved dog, whose death prompted the poem. The line ‘whose honest heart is still his Masters own’ should command our attention in relation to Xavier Bray’s ‘Portraits of Dogs’ exhibition at the Wallace Collection, Marylebone. The audio guide takes us for a walk, through art history, led by Dr Bray, along which academics join to explore the anthropomorphism of ‘man’s best friend’.
An elegant 1st-2nd century marble statue of two greyhounds grooming each other occupies centre stage on entering the exhibition. We are struck by the tenderness of this early depiction of canine emotion. But returning to our audio guide, we are joined by the beloved classicist Mary Beard who posits her trademark question, asking but how far are we projecting modern notions of pets onto the past? Apparently, dogs kept as pets were uncommon in Ancient Rome, but the remaining exhibition shows how naturally we project our emotions onto these animals. Even in the gallery watching people looking at the portraits, it was a joy to see this first hand, hearing people say: "Oh, doesn’t he look cross! Oh, so mournful… He’s gorgeous… He looks so embarrassed!”
Nowhere in the exhibition do we find ourselves personifying dogs as naturally as in the ‘Allegorical Dogs’ room. Devoted to the moralising allegorical paintings of Edwin Landseer, a 19th century animalier and seemingly the star of this exhibition, dogs come to life assuming roles such as downtrodden Victorian tramps, to emperor Alexander the Great and Greek philosopher Diogenes; a poodle’s white curls are well suited to the role of High Court Judge in Laying Down the Law (1840); two black pugs play Uncle Tom, the hero of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s anti-slavery novel, and his wife, shackled together, a whip ominously hanging above them. The paintings were Landseer’s attempt to elevate dog portraiture to a higher genre of art.
Landseer was popular with the English aristocracy who had a keen interest in dogs, with preoccupations with bloodlines and pedigree reflecting their own cultural obsession with progeny and breeding. The exhibition moves from the strong sporting animal portraiture of George Stubbs (1724-1806) to the domain of the Pekingese. Ah Cum stares at us from their Perspex cage, tongue hanging, eyes ‘defiant and fearless’. These darling creatures are survivors of the British siege of Peking, China. In Peking they had enjoyed a life of luxury, fed from gold bowls and sleeping on white silk. As a breed exclusive to the Imperial family, lay people were not permitted to touch them, and had to bow if they passed them, until the British laid siege, and hundreds of Pekingese fled into the countryside. Once captured by English merchants, they were brought back to London and gifted to Queen Victoria, quickly becoming the favourite lapdog of the upper classes.
In the last two rooms it’s Faberge and Freud that stand out against even the Da Vinci and Gainsborough. Two small works both speak to the deep emotional bond we form with our pets and the testament to that bond: grief. The Faberge model of King Edward VII’s wire fox terrier, Caesar, is a beautiful piece made after the death of the King for the mourning Queen. Caesar became a national treasure after his grief was sorrily watched by the nation as he followed behind the King’s hearse in his state funeral. His remarkable grief at the death of his master was captured in a book that became a bestseller; while Pluto’s Grave (2003) captures the grief of the artist after his whippet’s death, the sense of absence in the work articulates Freud’s solitude and sorrow.
By the end of the exhibition, we come to see that “portraits of dogs are portraits of us”, and that dogs not only seem to resemble their owners but reflect their owners’ personalities. The line between us and them is blurred and relationships mirrored or sometimes reversed. Where do we draw the line between human and canine qualities? The word cynic comes from the ancient Greek for ‘dog-like’, and the founder of Cynicism, Diogenes, felt that to live as a dog was the most human way to live, a bizarre philosophy which went on to inform stoicism. But his idea is also reflected in Freud’s work, of which Freud himself said “I’m really interested in people as animals. Part of my liking to work from them naked is for that reason. Because I can see more … I like people to look as natural and as physically at ease as animals, as Pluto my whippet”.
Portraits of Dogs: From Gainsborough to Hockney is showing at The Wallace Collection until 15th October.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
