The best art in London can appear in surprising places; currently it is to be found in a converted newsagent off North End Road. Hundreds of art lovers are braving the drizzle to glimpse the so-called “Fulham David,” a painting purported by some to be a lost work by Michelangelo.
Inside, visitors are met with dim lighting, the faint smell of recent floor polish, and the star attraction: a modest 40-by-30 cm panel depicting a muscular, half-reclining figure staring at what could be either a cracked marble column or a very large breadstick. His gaze drifts toward a bowl of pears that, under harsh light, resemble old tennis balls. The palette is muted, the brushwork uneven, yet the crowds keep coming, snapping selfies in reverent silence, as if proximity alone might grant them Renaissance insight.
For those squinting hard enough, there are hints of High Renaissance grandeur: the contraposto, the muscular form, the slightly imploring expression, perhaps the ghost of the Sistine Chapel lingers here. But for others, the resemblance stops the moment you look closely at the hands, which have the odd, blocky quality of someone painting gloves without ever having seen any.
Who is this painting by? Pro-Michelangelo voices argue for a youthful experimental work, perhaps dashed off between major commissions, its roughness the mark of genius unpolished. Then there are the more sober comparisons to Michael Andrews (1928–1995), the English painter known for his luminous, painterly figuration, often tinged with melancholy. Andrews’ portraits and group scenes, whether of bohemian parties or contemplative swimmers, carry a similar uncertainty of finish, a kind of cultivated incompleteness. The Fulham David’s flat planes and curiously distracted expression, say the Andrews camp, feel far closer to mid-20th-century London than early-16th-century Florence.
Dr. Selina Marwood of the Courtyard Institute is firmly in the Andrews column: “If Michelangelo painted this, then I’m Raphael’s left hand. The figure’s torso has promise, but the pears are pure 1960s Andrews, slightly unresolved, bathed in a haze of longing. And the varnish looks like it’s from somewhere between Carnaby Street and the Sixties.”
Meanwhile, the exhibition’s curator insists on neutrality, preferring to highlight the “mystery” over any definitive authorship. “Whether it’s the hand of Michelangelo, Michael Andrews, or even my mate Michael who popped in for a pint,” he said, “the public are clearly captivated. And the public are rarely wrong in such matters of art identification.”
Captivated they are. Pensioners, students, art tourists, and the simply curious all shuffle forward in the dim light, eager to witness a painting that might be a masterpiece. “Even if it wasn’t originally by Michelangelo, I feel that it is by him now,” commented Audrey Willan, and all the people nearby cheered in agreement.
In the end, the “Fulham David” may never be conclusively identified. But like the queues outside, the speculation shows no sign of stopping, and in the art world, ambiguity is sometimes the most valuable commodity of all.
