I approached this exhibition like a conscientious critic, poring over the catalogue, the signage, making notes… And then, about halfway through, I drifted. I dawdled. I stopped thinking and gave in to the aesthetic rapture, the rhyming half-tones, the ‘breath-like softness’ of Whistler’s paint. I was a disciple, briefly, of art for art’s sake, even though I wasn’t wearing white, nor carrying a peony.

It was the room full of Nocturnes that sent me. Their opiate-like gloomth put me right beside the Thames at dusk. No, that’s too pedestrian. Not beside the Thames; with the Thames. Whistler lived on Cheyne Walk, but watching the river was not enough; he would take a boat out at night to prepare for his paintings. His ferrymen – satisfyingly enough for anyone trying to trace a line through the history of British art – were brothers Walter and Henry Greaves, also artists, and sons of Turner’s boatman.

Tony Blair is right about Britain – but can’t own up to his mistakes

What should gents wear in the heat?

Is Nicola Sturgeon the least curious woman on the planet?

It was the room full of Nocturnes that sent me

It was the room full of Nocturnes that sent me

Apparently Whistler would chat........

© The Spectator