In this age of AI art and fake-hyper-realism, it is a double pleasure to see the power of raw paint depicting flesh and faces in Jenny Saville’s exhibition, The Anatomy of Painting, at the National Portrait Gallery in London.
The iconic Propped is an early work that announced Jenny Saville’s arrival as a major figurative painter, inspired by Lucian Freud, but going beyond, presenting the truth of flesh and posing questions about society and its gaze. The overall diamond shape defines the composition, with the crossed hands and fingers digging into the fleshy thighs at the centre of the painting – the anchor-point of tension. The head is leaning partly back, angled away, but still looking down at us, whether in disdain or discomfort is unclear. The top of the head is not shown, suggesting that the sitter didn’t wish to be the subject of a viewer’s gaze.
The uncomfortable positioning of the head and the fragility of the hands are countered by the strong knees and legs, and the overall willingness to say: here I am, this is me. The painting asks us to think about the perception of the female body. The hands digging into the flesh could be seen as nervousness about the stares of others, their expectations; it could also be seething anger. The painting asks us to look again at the tradition of painting the nude, the distorting male gaze and culturally induced self-perception.
Hyphen is a double portrait of the artist and her sister, with the contrasting angles of the heads, one forward, with enquiring eyes open to the world, the other leaning back with half-hooded eyes looking straight at the viewer, almost suspicious, a bit weary, perhaps asking, ‘Why are you looking at me?’ The skin is textured, a patchwork of colours, a statement that skin is real, not an airbrushed or AI smooth creation. We are what we are. Raw. Real. And only one set of shoulders are visible, making us think of a two-headed person. Sisters, siblings, separate but together in a wider joint identity, the hyphen of the title communicating the link.
Jenny Saville doesn’t shy away from the difficult and disturbing. She paints people hurt and damaged, the bruises and abrasions represented in thick paint, going beyond realism to a more neo-expressionist form to communicate meaning and emotions. By not worrying as much about portrait realism, Saville makes us question the whole notion of portraiture, what the face is, and how best to convey the person, the emotion and the situation or story. There are others in the Stare Series that are even more disturbing to look at. Bleach, to me, is a type of calm, resigned statement: this is reality, behind the public veil.
Jenny Saville is also a draughtswoman, drawing portraits in pencil and charcoal. In Neck Study II we see her talent with line, skill with graphite. In addition, it is not a static portrait. Here, there is an intriguing movement of having two portraits in one, again making us think as to what a portrait is, should be, could be. Also, it underlines that we are more than a snapshot. It is beautiful, eerie and stays with us even after we walk to the next artwork.
Rosetta Study shows the same talent, here a preparatory drawing, part of Jenny Saville’s project to depict Rossetta, a blind woman from Naples. Here we see the unseeing eyes. The face, hair, neck and part of the hands are drawn in real life form, down to the single hairs, but the body and the rest of the hand and arm are more of a sketch, and the contrast between the “finished” and the “started” adds an energy to the whole.
Rosetta is a harrowing, yet beautiful piece, with white and sky-blue unseeing eyes pulling us towards her. There is the weary angle of the head and neck, the almost eroded skin, perhaps oil-spattered shoulder, all make us feel that she, we, are decomposing in the world we made. Rosetta, and by implication, we, are blind. In these times of war, famine and human rights abuses, where politics has become a post-truth reality, we are all in some ways Rosetta, partly blinded, certainly worn out by what is happening and needn’t be happening (see also Brian Maguire’s declaration of the illusion of human rights).
I don’t know whether this was the intention behind Jenny Saville’s painting, which pre-dates the current global problems, but that’s the feeling it inspired, compounded by local realities of many living lives that are not blessed with Hollywood endings. But to move it back to less harrowing ground, Saville’s portraits ask us to look again at who we are, the role of the distorting male gaze on female bodies, and how we wish to capture reality in paint.
The woman’s name, Rossetta, also immediately brings into mind the Rosetta Stone, and in this context, Jenny Saville’s painting provides us with interpretive tools to help us see the reality out there that is often glossed over or ignored. Furthermore, Rossetta, in the painting feels like she is sensing, seeing the world without the power of sight. Perhaps that is the Rossetta Stone, with Jenny Saville showing us that we can sense in so many ways. These words don’t do justice to the experience; go and stand before Rossetta.
Jenny Saville’s The Anatomy of Painting is on at the National Portrait Gallery in London until 7 September 2025. Thanks also to the Gagosian network of galleries and to the many owners of the paintings who made them available for this not-to-be-missed exhibition.
Jenny Saville said, ‘I want to be a painter of modern life, of modern bodies.’ She does, but, trigger warning, there are also paintings of damaged faces, notably in her Stare Series of colossal portraits. Go and you will get an XL serving of the harsher side of reality. Tenderness too.
