Imagine a moonlit scene, a man with a shovel lurking in the shadows—is he burying a secret or unearthing one? This is the world of Joseph Wright of Derby, an artist whose paintings whisper of science, morality, and the eerie beauty of the unknown. In An Earthstopper on the Banks of the Derwent, Wright captures a moment that feels both sinister and mesmerizing. Under the silvery glow of the moon, a man blocks a fox den, a act that, while cruel by today’s standards, is rendered with a hypnotic allure. The foaming river, the rustling leaves, and the clunk of the spade create a nocturnal symphony that brings the scene to life in a way daylight never could. But here’s where it gets controversial: is Wright condemning this act, or is he simply observing the complexities of human nature? And this is the part most people miss—Wright’s true genius lies in his ability to infuse scientific curiosity with a gothic sensibility, long before the genre was formally born.
The National Gallery’s exhibition, Wright of Derby: From the Shadows, reveals him as a pioneer of the gothic, painting the horrors and wonders of the night in the 1760s and 70s. But the real shock? The terror in his works isn’t supernatural—it’s scientific. Take A Philosopher by Lamplight, where two travelers stumble upon a hermit playing with a skeleton, pondering the mysteries of death. In an age where science was challenging religious dogma, Wright’s paintings ask: What happens when God is replaced by reason? And in The Blacksmith’s Shop, the glowing metal illuminates a crumbling classical temple, a nod to Renaissance nativity scenes but with a twist—here, the birth of the modern world emerges from the ruins of Christianity. Is this a celebration of progress, or a warning of what we leave behind?
Wright’s masterpiece, A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery, is a spectacle of scale and wonder. A mechanical model of the solar system captivates a shadowy audience, from wide-eyed children to skeptical adults. The orrery seems vast up close, yet diminishes to a mere toy from afar—a metaphor for how perspective shapes our understanding of the universe. But the real drama unfolds in An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump, where a scientist prepares to kill a cockatoo in the name of science. One girl turns away, horrified, while others watch with a mix of fascination and dread. Wright’s use of light and shadow transforms this rational experiment into a nightmarish theater of power and mortality. Is this the price of progress? And who truly wields the power in this scene—the scientist, or the forces of nature he seeks to control?
Wright’s paintings are more than historical artifacts; they’re a mirror to our own age, where science’s promise and peril coexist. As we marvel at his luminous canvases, we’re left with a question: Are we the enlightened observers, or the subjects of an experiment yet to unfold? Let’s discuss—do you see Wright as a celebrant of science, a cautionary voice, or something in between?
