It was their last hour, A madness of farewells 1913

Curator: Stepping into this quiet corner, we encounter Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale's work from 1913, titled "It was their last hour, A madness of farewells." Painted with oils, there's an intimate story being told here. What's your first take? Editor: A storm cloud gathered inside a room. Dark woods, heavy fabrics—it feels oppressive, almost suffocating, even with that candle flickering. And the embrace, tense, strained... what's happening? Curator: Precisely. Fortescue-Brickdale was a key figure in the later Pre-Raphaelite movement, which had an obsession with storytelling and historical romanticism. The title is suggestive—we don’t know exactly who these people are, but this is the end of something significant. Editor: Yes, her art whispers secrets, and like a symbolist painter, the texture really stands out—look at how the fabrics cascade and wrap around the figures, so richly painted—heavy symbolism going on. This isn't just a goodbye; it's the *end*. Curator: Absolutely. Notice the compositional choices—the two figures are almost trapped within the vertical lines of the room. The artist subtly leads our eyes toward the pale figures huddled in desperation, as the flowers scattered at their feet suggest an act of violation. It's a scene drenched in foreboding. The very tight framing—how does that effect the viewer here? Editor: That constriction reinforces the drama. You feel almost voyeuristic. But let’s circle back to those flowers... the spilt rose petals—aren't they an ancient symbol? You could say that's a romantic vision defiled by some cruelty that may speak volumes. It echoes themes of betrayal, or even death... Curator: Spot on. These recurring symbols appear through Fortescue-Brickdale's work—echoing universal sentiments about the fleeting nature of beauty and the sorrow of parting. What I always come back to with this piece, though, is its deeply human quality. Even veiled in symbolism, the sheer intensity of the figures’ farewell resonates deeply. Editor: For me, it’s the texture of grief. The weight of what's left unsaid seems heavier than the fabrics that surround them. So what are we really left with, I suppose, is something more primal and eternal. Curator: A last reminder perhaps, that sometimes endings are but merely poignant pauses...