The National Gallery has recently rehung its entire collection. Taking hundreds of paintings off the wall and replacing them in a new arrangement requires considerable mental and physical labour on the part of curators, conservators and technicians.

A rehang tends to elicit strong reactions from anyone with a stake in the collection – and in the case of a public gallery, “anyone” means “everyone”.
Unsurprisingly then, it has only been done twice at the National Gallery since the second world war.

Last month, I attended a launch party for the gallery’s new Sainsbury Wing entrance. It marked the end of NG200, a year-long programme of events celebrating the gallery’s 200th birthday. As the author of the gallery’s authorised bicentenary history, I had written about the refurbishment, albeit with only computer-generated impressions of what it would look like. Now I could see for myself.

Inside the launch party for the gallery’s new Sainsbury Wing entrance.
Jonathan Conlin, CC BY-SA

Back in 1946, the director of the National Gallery was eager to offer both reassurance about his rehang and the promise of striking new juxtapositions. “The traditional grouping by schools has been largely maintained,” Sir Philip Hendy noted, “but a good many exceptions have been made, partly for the sake of a more harmonious and stimulating ensemble and partly for the sake of historical truth.”

The rehang, Hendy argued, would show how “the spirit of the time is usually more important than national boundaries, and that ideas can transcend both”. A striking example was Hendy hanging Bronzino’s An Allegory With Venus and Cupid (1545) next to Holbein’s The Ambassadors, painted just 12 years earlier.

“I enjoyed the intellectual shocks provided, lavishly, in the juxtaposition of unexpected artists,” wrote one regular visitor from Godalming in Surrey. But she soon found herself wondering if there was “some subtle plan” behind “having the Botticellis all in different rooms, the Venetians just anywhere, and the Rembrandts torn asunder?”

Evacuation of paintings from the National Gallery during the second world war, shortly before the last rehang.
Imperial War Museum

The Bronzino and the Holbein were split up fairly quickly, perhaps in response to criticism from other confused visitors. While they have not been reunited on the same wall, as I stood back from The Ambassadors in room four, I could turn my head to the left and see Venus and Cupid neatly framed by the door to neighbouring room two.

At least, I could have seen it, had Neil MacGregor not been standing in front of it. The National Gallery’s director from 1987 to 2002, MacGregor oversaw the last complete rehang as well as the construction of the Sainsbury Wing, which opened in 1991.

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At that time, the gallery’s then-head of exhibitions, Michael Wilson, replaced the traditional grouping by schools with the wing system, which organised the hang around three broad pan-European epochs. It was a profound shift, perhaps linked to broader pan-European political visions that would lead to the introduction of a common European currency in 1999.

Former National Gallery trustee Robert Benson (as drawn by John Singer Sargent) believed art should be hung chronologically.
Wiki Commons

This was a world away from the previous arrangement. “Pictures must be hung in historical sequence,” trustee Robert Benson noted in 1914. “A salon carré, or a Tribuna, of masterpieces of all schools is an objective far ahead.”

For Benson, it was clear that the collection could only be understood “school by school”. Each painter “must be appreciated and judged in relation to the chef d’école of whose artistic lineage, or entourage, he forms part”. Collecting works from the “period of eclecticism and decadence” that followed each chef d’école (the initiator or leader of a school of painting) was of secondary importance.

But as a result, in the National Gallery that Benson (a wannabe gallery director) helped create and that MacGregor inherited, there were shocks aplenty as the visitor jumped from one school to another.

Having followed the French school through from Corneille de Lyon’s Man in a Black Biretta (c. 1538-61) through Jacques-Louis David’s Jacobus Blauw (1795) to Cézanne’s Hillside in Provence (c. 1890-1912), you then jumped four or more centuries back to start over again with the Dutch or the Italians.

The redesigned wing

These shocks were compounded by gestures towards period interiors: terrazzo tile for the Italians, dark wood panelling for the Dutch. Opened in 1975, the northern extension’s carpet, suspended ceilings and floating walls were hailed as “a model of discretion and reticence in comparison to the grandeur of the Victorian interiors”.

Under MacGregor’s wing system, “the spirit of the time” came first – nowhere more so than in the Sainsbury Wing, designed to set up a conversation between the artists of the Northern Renaissance and the Italian Renaissance. The system recognised that the Alps had not been a barrier to the exchange of artistic ideas, and had been criss-crossed by many Renaissance artists, including Albrecht Dürer.

The postmodern American architects chosen to design the Sainsbury Wing, Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown, larded their design with a series of knowing, sometimes mannered quotations from much older buildings.

The redesign of this Grade I-listed building by the American architect Annabelle Selldorf has now opened up Venturi and Scott Brown’s dark, crypt-like ground floor foyer. Squat columns originally intended to create a sense of anticipation have been thinned and in some cases removed. As the Twentieth Century Society noted in its planning objection, “the key sense of compression” (released upon climbing the stair) has been lost.

Artemisia Gentileschi’s Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria has not been hung in a specific women artists room.
National Gallery

A ‘tamer’ rehang

Upstairs in the galleries, theme rooms have been introduced, scattered among the otherwise chronological hang. The choice of themes is tamer than the 2023 rehang of European paintings at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, where some of the themes feel forced – such as “Tiepolo and multiracial Europe”.

The National Gallery has resisted the temptation to devote a gallery to women artists: Artemisia Gentileschi’s Self Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria (c. 1615-17) hangs between Caravaggios in room three, not next to Elizabeth Vigée Le Brun’s Self Portrait in a Straw Hat (1782) in room 15.

Those who admired the way in which MacGregor invited non-believers to engage with Christian art on an emotional level may nonetheless feel that an opportunity has been lost. This is a rehang that could have shocked more than it did.

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Jonathan Conlin is the author of the National Gallery’s authorised bicentenary history, The National Gallery: A History.