Art Review: ‘Cecil Beaton’s Bright Young Things’ Exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery

Cecil Beaton’s Bright Young Things is the new exhibition at London’s National Portrait Gallery. If anyone could love a museum and have only one love, I’d pick the NPG. Its spacious, elegant galleries are packed with portraits of Britain’s great and good, with a few devils, and over the years, depending on my mood and particular dilemmas, I would look at a portrait and ask, “What would he do?”

Depending on the dilemma, I’d ask Catherine Parr how she kept her head when all about were losing theirs. There’s a portrait of Balfour and Chamberlain, masters of Imperial Britain but at that moment slouching on the front bench of the House, listening to a gasbag. “How to suffer fools gladly,” I’ve asked them. Castlereagh when I want something dreamy to look at, Sargent’s Ellen Terry for panache, Alcock the aviator when I’m needing to feel less cautious, the Cromwell room when I channel my inner Puritan. Mrs. Thatcher, of course, on most points, but Harold Wilson, too. There’s a great portrait of him, a casual bust picture, in a cloud of smoke from his pipe. Sometimes we need to use smoke and mirrors to get what we want.

About the Author

Brian T. Allen

Brian T. Allen is National Review’s art critic.

Cecil Beaton’s Bright Young Things is the new exhibition at London’s National Portrait Gallery. If anyone could love a museum and have only one love, I’d pick the NPG. Its spacious, elegant galleries are packed with portraits of Britain’s great and good, with a few devils, and over the years, depending on my mood and particular dilemmas, I would look at a portrait and ask, “What would he do?”

Depending on the dilemma, I’d ask Catherine Parr how she kept her head when all about were losing theirs. There’s a portrait of Balfour and Chamberlain, masters of Imperial Britain but at that moment slouching on the front bench of the House, listening to a gasbag. “How to suffer fools gladly,” I’ve asked them. Castlereagh when I want something dreamy to look at, Sargent’s Ellen Terry for panache, Alcock the aviator when I’m needing to feel less cautious, the Cromwell room when I channel my inner Puritan. Mrs. Thatcher, of course, on most points, but Harold Wilson, too. There’s a great portrait of him, a casual bust picture, in a cloud of smoke from his pipe. Sometimes we need to use smoke and mirrors to get what we want.