This spring will see the 250th birthday of Britain’s favourite painter. Joseph Mallord William Turner was born on 23 April 1775 among the rakes, beggars and other Georgian caricatures of London’s Covent Garden where his father kept a barber’s shop. In the 21st century, there seems to be a consensus that he was our greatest artist. Remainers and Reform voters, Mike Leigh and the Bank of England all agree. Everyone loves Mr Turner.
Well, almost everyone. There have always been holdouts. Turner lived until 1851, getting ever closer to abstract art, mocked by some for chucking yellow “mustard powder” around. The biggest and best book about him, John Ruskin’s Modern Painters, was written to put them right. Nowadays, fans of Turner’s contemporary John Constable still argue their hero is the more truly observant and authentic artist: isn’t JMW a bit vague with his blazing skies, boiling seas, luminous vapours?
