There’s something very revealing about the photos on people’s phone lock screens. Being nosy on crowded tubes, I’m always intrigued by what I can see. One person’s screen lights up to show a smiling child; another is filled by a wedding photo, or a picture of a beloved dog.
Being able to carry around a representation of a loved one – always in your pocket or hand — may seem like a modern invention. But an intimate new exhibition at Compton Verney suggests otherwise as it traces miniature portraiture’s long history from the stiff ruffs of the Elizabethans through to the ringlets of the Victorians.
Miniatures – tiny portraits, often no bigger than a palm and sometimes as small as the width of a thumb – were the descendants of the gold-leaf illuminations in medieval manuscripts. In the mid-16th century, members of Henry VIII’s court began to commission artists to paint something more personal and portable: tiny portraits, which could be given to a friend or lover. In the delicate hands of master painters such as Hans Holbein the Younger, something of an industry sprung up. Miniatures criss-crossed court, from the hands of Dukes to the bedrooms of Princesses. These tiny paintings are jewel-like both in appearance – pale faces are set against lapis-blue backgrounds like stones set in velvet – and in purpose: they could be suspended on ribbons, and worn like necklaces.
There’s something undeniably saucy about these paintings. Many of them were given as proof of affection, and were worn close against the skin and tucked behind clothing. In the Georgian era, they were often given at the point of betrothal, complete with a lock of hair. Given the vogue for wigs, it was often the only time a fiancée would discover her groom-to-be’s true hair colour. The romance didn’t always work, though: Robert Dudley commissioned a pair of tiny portraits when he was pressing his failed suit to marry Elizabeth I.
But it isn’t all sexiness. What emerges in these paintings – Elizabeth I with eye-bags and wrinkles, or aristocratic ladies with un-done hair – is a disarming frankness. These weren’t fine oil paintings, all pomp and propaganda, but something far more real, a snapshot in time.
The exhibition takes in miniatures produced during the ravages of the Civil War and Interregnum. One pair from c 1650 – of Charles I, and a woman who could potentially be his wife, Henrietta Maria – reveals a playful element to the artwork. The portraits came with a set of painted lenses to layer over the top: a lens to dress Charles up as a nun, as a King, or even to show him with his head being cut off. The illicit portraits could be hidden away in a case, and stuffed inside a pocket. These play-miniatures were produced in some numbers but, by the 19th century, small portraits were mass-produced, accessible even to poorer soldiers who wanted to send a picture of them in their uniform.
The Reflected Self is a subtle show. Its intrigue and delight come from paying attention to the tiny details: the way a Georgian man has been painted with his wig powder staining his clothes; the delicacy of depicting 17th-century lace. This is not a blockbuster exhibition, but there’s a touching charm to be found in its diminutive scale.
Until Feb 23, 2025. Tickets: 01926 645 50; comptonverney.org.uk
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