Forget Soho bars, Covent Garden eateries, King’s Cross clubs and Mayfair casinos, the place to be in central London at one o’clock on Saturday morning was the National Gallery’s sell-out exhibition Van Gogh: Poets and Lovers.
For only the second time in its history, the gallery acted like a frantic student on the eve of finals and pulled an all-nighter.
The first time this venerable institution overlooking Trafalgar Square opened for 24 hours was in 2012 for Leonardo da Vinci: Painter at the Court Milan. That was the most popular ticketed exhibition the gallery had ever known, though Van Gogh may well overtake it before it closes this Sunday.
So perhaps it was no surprise that everyone had the same answer to the question of why they had chosen to come to look at these famous works – including Starry Night over the Rhône, Sunflowers, Self-Portrait and The Bedroom – at such a late hour: it was the earliest time available.
“If I’d booked at 3am, perhaps it would have been quieter,” muses Beverley Kanuga, who like many, is a return visitor.
“You’d have been asleep,” says her son, Darius.
There was a lot of similar speculation about later times, whether they’d be less busy and perhaps make for a better interaction with the artworks.
“I was thinking that if you came at, like, 4am, it would be this incredible, holy experience,” says Sarah Polak, visiting with her friend, Nicole Horgan.
In which case, why didn’t she opt for that hour instead?
“Because I want to be in bed then,” she replies with mild exasperation, as if that were self-evident. “That’s an airport kind of time to be awake.”
In fact, all slots throughout the night were snapped up within 24 hours of becoming available. In one sense the chronological external world is always excluded from this corner of the gallery because there is no natural light coming in. But in reality the time of day dramatically affects the experience of viewing art.
“There’s a completely different demographic,” says Rachel Gough, whose silver tint of hair places her in the middle-aged sector of visitors. “When I came before, during the day, I felt quite young. Now I feel relatively older. And there’s a much more ethnically mixed group of people here.”
I ask Sophie Jackson and her friend Anna Lumley if they feel a different atmosphere in the gallery at this late hour? “It’s more like I have a different atmosphere,” says Jackson. “Somehow you feel a greater sense of reverence at night.”
Reverence was possibly not the uppermost thought in the mind of John, a young man eager to share his distinctive take on the proceedings.
“The thing about having late opening hours at such an esteemed exhibition as this is that you’re able to take small doses of mushrooms that really enhance Van Gogh,” he says. “That’s just not possible if you visit during the day.”
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Why is that? “It doesn’t quite fit into the individual schedule.” He flashes a conspiratorial grin. “But the night provides a very safe atmosphere to savour this enriched way of seeing.”
John says he’s not alone, either. Six of his friends are also present in a similar state of psychotropic enchantment. “We’ve been looking forward to it all week.”
Since the pandemic there have been many complaints that central London’s nightclubs, the traditional scene of chemical stimulation, have either closed down or are no longer staying open so late. Increased rents and more stringent application of licensing laws have been blamed, but perhaps younger people just want to give their ears a rest, and may in turn like to give their eyes a feast.
About 150 years ago, when he was in his early 20s, Van Gogh, whose preferred poison was absinthe, used to frequent the National Gallery. It was during this two-year period when he lived and worked in London, before he even picked up a paintbrush, that he came to appreciate British artists such as Turner, Constable and Millais.
Later he wrote to his younger brother and financial supporter, Theo, quoting Emile Zola: “I’d rather die of passion than of boredom.” It’s a sentiment that in many ways sums up the popular image of Van Gogh, a man driven to the extremes of creativity by a fierce, and ultimately self-destructive, passion.
Joseph Dean, visiting with Anissa Colaco Souza, thinks that a post-midnight crowd is more likely to be in sync with such strong emotions. “To come out at this time, you’ve got to have some sense of passion,” he says. “I think it’s potentially a more motivated group of people.”
The abiding and tragic irony about Van Gogh, of course, is that he killed himself at 37 without his work ever reaching any kind of public recognition, beyond his devotedly loyal brother and few artist friends. He would never have imagined, on his trips to the National Gallery back in the 1870s, the posthumous stardom that fate had in store for him.
But he was well aware of the effect that London, then the biggest city in the world, was having on him. As he wrote to Theo, “I’m gradually beginning to turn into a cosmopolitan.”
In the small hours of Saturday morning, that process feels just as vividly alive as the great man’s imperishable paintings.
