Imagine a shadowy figure, shovel in hand, lurking under the silvery glow of a full moon. Is he burying a secret, or unearthing one? This is the world of Joseph Wright of Derby, a painter who captured the dawn of science with a gothic twist. His works, now under the spotlight at the National Gallery, reveal a man fascinated by the light and dark of human ingenuity.
In An Earthstopper on the Banks of the Derwent, Wright paints a scene that feels both eerie and captivating. A man blocks a fox den under the cover of night, a morally questionable act by today’s standards. But Wright’s brushstrokes transform this moment into something hypnotic. The interplay of lantern light and moonlight brings the scene to life, making you almost hear the rustle of leaves and the clink of the spade. It’s not just a nighttime landscape—it’s a living, breathing world, a testament to Wright’s ability to animate the darkness.
But here’s where it gets controversial: While Wright was friends with the pioneering scientists of the Lunar Society, his paintings aren’t just celebrations of progress. They’re also cautionary tales. Take A Philosopher by Lamplight, where two travelers stumble upon a hermit playing with a skeleton. It’s a chilling scene, but the real horror isn’t supernatural—it’s scientific. The philosopher is grappling with the implications of a world where God might be dead, replaced by rational inquiry. Is this the birth of enlightenment, or the beginning of something darker?
Wright’s The Blacksmith’s Shop adds another layer to this debate. The blacksmith works in a crumbling classical temple, a nod to Renaissance nativity scenes where Roman ruins symbolize the rise of Christianity. But what does it mean here? Is Wright suggesting that the modern, material world is rising from the ashes of Christianity? It’s a bold interpretation, one that invites us to question the cost of progress.
And then there’s A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery, a masterpiece of scale and perspective. Wright shows us the same scientific model from different viewpoints—vast and awe-inspiring to children, small and manageable to adults. And this is the part most people miss: The adults in the painting seem less captivated than the children. Have they lost their sense of wonder, or are they skeptical of science’s promises? Wright leaves us to ponder.
The exhibition pairs the Orrery with An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump, a painting that shifts from wonder to dread. Here, a scientist prepares to kill a cockatoo in a vacuum chamber, while his audience reacts with horror or fascination. Is this the price of knowledge? Wright’s use of light and shadow turns the scene into a nightmarish theater, where science, power, and cruelty collide. The youngest girl in the painting, unable to look away, seems to embody the gothic imagination—perhaps she’s the next Mary Shelley, inspired by the dark side of progress.
Wright’s paintings are more than historical artifacts; they’re conversations about the nature of science and its impact on humanity. Do we control science, or does it control us? As we marvel at his luminous canvases, we’re left with a question that’s as relevant today as it was in the 18th century: What happens when the power to create becomes the power to destroy? Let’s discuss—what do you think Wright is really saying about the cost of progress?
