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Smiling, I stroll through the room dedicated to the Romantics, which is surprisingly empty although I am glad it is.
Most of the visitors are having a look at the National Portrait Gallery’s newest acquisition, a portrait of Henry VIII’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon, which has recently been restored and is now hanging next to its counterpart, the portrait of her husband in the first room on the top floor of the exhibition.
For me, the very first room, dedicated to the Tudors, and also the second, dedicated to the Elizabethan era, are, though nice, nothing more than an introduction into the atmosphere of the Gallery, a transition era from the hectic, noisy city into its quiet and calming heart.
Inside the large rooms it’s always quiet and in the last few months I have spent more than just a few minutes sitting in each of them, staring at a portrait, trying to get to know the sitter and the artist, sorting through my thoughts and forgetting about my past while preparing for the future.
Each room has its little gem.
In the fourth room it is the portrait of William Shakespeare that makes me stop for a moment every single time simply because it reminds me of Tom.
In room twelve it is the portrait of Sarah Siddons as Lady Macbeth that draws me in every time I pass it. Maybe it’s the darkness of it or the beauty of her face or maybe it’s because it reminds me of that warm, summer evening last year where we went to see Macbeth at the Globe.
In the room I’m in now, room number eighteen, it is the tiny little watercolour drawing of Jane Austen that makes me stop for a moment. It is a pale little portrait and amidst all the dark, colourful portraits of the other Romantic poets it would probably go unnoticed were it not for the glass case that it sits in. Not quite in the middle of the room but far away from the wall to draw attention to itself, the light inside lits up every time somebody steps closer, so eager is it to please the eye of the observer, to make him feel welcome.
Taking one last look at the not quite beautiful yet intriguing woman, I move on, back through room seventeen and past the portrait of Lady Emma Hamilton, a true beauty from the eighteenth century, further into room fourteen where a big, green leather sofa, divided into different seating areas, dominates the middle of the room, distracting the visitor shortly from the paintings on the wall.
What distracts me most, though, is the tall, lean man, his ginger-blond hair neatly combed without looking prissy, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbows while his waistcoat makes him look formal without being overdressed. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his eyes fixed onto the picture in front of him, showing the collapse of William Pitt, the 1st Earl of Chatham, in the House of Lords on 7 April 1778. It’s a large painting, larger than the others in the room and it takes centre stage on the eastern wall, the red of the men’s cloaks forming a stark contrast to the pale green wall surrounding it.
Quietly, I step next to him and a short glance of his into my direction tells me that he acknowledges my presence. I like the silence between us. It’s not the kind of silence that lingers in the air after a fight or the silence that takes up space between strangers or friends who grew apart and don’t know what to say after they talked about the weather and how is the family? and wow, you’ve changed, haven’t you.
It’s a comfortable silence, a silence between two people who know each other so well, know each others’ every little detail and secret that it’s almost too much to bear yet again it doesn’t overwhelm. Instead, it protects, makes one feel safe and at home.
Behind us, a group of people enter the room accompanied by an older lady who makes herself comfortable next to the portrait of Charlotte Sophia of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, obviously determined to give a little lecture about the sitter and its painter.
Still without exchanging a single word, Tom and I turn around walking past the group and out of the room towards the steps leading to the first floor where we are greeted by portraits from the Victorian Era. Instead of lingering in one of the rooms on either side of the long hallway, though, we walk straight ahead, side by side, until we reach the sculpture of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.
It’s a colourless sculpture, plain white and yet still impressive and, most importantly, expressive. Her posture speaks of love, dependence, trust while his is princely, confident, a tower of strength. It’s not their faces that make this sculpture special, though, neither is it their Anglo-Saxon attire, so untypical for Victorian times. No, it’s their hands, hers in his, that make it stand out, make it different. Her left hand rests softly in his; a simple gesture, so often copied by friends, family, lovers.
And by us.
Slowly, naturally, my right hand slips into his left, my slender fingers fitting perfectly in the gaps between his, the cold metal of his wedding ring sending a shiver along my hand as it touches that delicate spot in between my ring and middle finger. Gently, he lets his thumb run along mine, probably without even realising that he does it and it makes me smile.
People are so scared of routines yet I love them, crave them, live off them.
I don’t care whether it’s something as simple as having the same breakfast every day or a weekly trip to the National Portrait Gallery, where we always have the same route, the same place to sit, the same portraits to admire.
I love routines, especially if it’s something as simple as holding hands, holding his hand, while looking at Queen Victoria and Prince Albert doing exactly the same.