The John Madejski Fine Rooms: RA’s Living Archive
Burlington House prepares to close its six historic galleries after a year of curatorial dissonance.
By Alexis Lim
I stood beneath a chandelier in a Georgian ballroom while neo-expressionist canvases blazed in my periphery.
It was like gasping through a pinhole, trying to make sense of the contrast in the space, as though overhearing a tense conversation between architects and painters separated by centuries.
The definition of a “gallery” is fluid; it brings together a thematically coherent collection of works to engage the senses, immersing the viewer in a singular experience that transports them back in time, into the future, wherever the artist so desires.
At Burlington House, however, the visitor encounters not only the artist's intentions, but those of the curator. Housed within six 18th-century state rooms, the Royal Academy of Arts’ John Madejski Fine Rooms offer more than just a diverse melange of artworks.
Built in 1664, the John Madejski Fine Rooms are at once understated and ornate, their walls adorned with paintings both contemporary to the rooms’ origins and centuries past. I found myself standing in a gallery that seemed much like any other: a series of elegant spaces with dramatic Georgian ceilings and lacquered wood floors. I subconsciously noted the meticulous restoration throughout; the walls bore fresh coats of paint, and the gilded chandeliers were spotless.
Yet, cosmetic renewal only scratched the surface of Burlington House’s history. Over the centuries, it has been sold, acquired, redesigned, and modified under the hands of successive owners, among them Juliana Boyle, countess of Burlington and Cork, in 1710, and Lord George Cavendish in 1812.
In the 18th century, Burlington House served as a gathering place for distinguished artists, poets, musicians, and academics. They dined, danced, and dallied, convening in sophisticated chambers that visitors from the 21st century can now peruse for free.
Naturally, the rooms themselves hold stories that have little to do with the artworks currently displayed within them. Most of the paintings on view date from the 20th century, with some as recent as the early 2000s, representing only a fraction of RA’s 250-year-old collection.
The rooms’ public opening had been a temporary arrangement, made possible by RA’s ongoing expansion of its main Collections Gallery. Their scheduled closure on 29 January 2027 thus marks the end of a rare opportunity for the public to explore these otherwise inaccessible historic interiors.
The Fine Rooms comprise the Reynolds Room, the Tennant Gallery, the Richard Sharp Council Room, the General Assembly Room, the Blavatnik Saloon, and the Slaughter Room, each with its own subtly distinct layout, personality, and tone. This article explores the first four of the six.
The ‘80s and ‘90s sit in the Reynolds Room
The largest of the six rooms, the Reynolds Room takes its name from the first President of RA, Sir Joshua Reynolds. With its gleaming chandeliers and gold-accented plaster ceilings, it is little wonder that this triple-cube space once served as a ballroom.
The room features works exclusively from the 20th century, united by the theme of “people and place”. The faces and bodies on the canvases reflect in the eyes of those standing as observers. It was uncanny, the feeling of sitting amid a shifting crowd while enveloped by silence, as though the people in the paintings were sitting with me.
Perhaps the most visually striking works in the room, and possibly the entire collection on display, were two late-20th-century paintings hanging side by side: Mid River: The Bearer by Timothy Hyman and The Pianist Entertains by John Bellany. Both burst with vivid, neo-expressionist colours, recalling an era when liveliness and spirit were compelled to return to art, architecture, and fashion. I felt a strange sense of melancholy wash over me in protest, dimming the very colours that had first drawn my eyes to the canvases.
The paintings distil urban life and social culture into frames, delivering fragments of a recent past straight into a centuries-old ballroom. The movement and bustle, barely contained within their yellow-orange palettes, shared no warmth with the cold, hushed gallery; the chatter was unintelligible, the piano could not be heard.
Tucked into a corner, Bill Jacklin’s The Rink is an extraordinary work that held me in place with its own hot-and-cold embrace. Completed in 1992, the painting depicts New York City’s Central Park at three in the afternoon; it depicts families, sunrays, and Christmas cheer, even as long shadows obscure the figures in darkness, dousing the painting in an eerie, unusual sorrow. A lost memory stirs to life; a dying flicker of hope to cling to as the world crawls towards its demise. The Rink is at once bleak and nostalgic, an oddly fitting work for a historic ballroom in which generations have danced in circles.
Floral arrangements in the General Assembly Room
I entered the General Assembly Room last. The intimate space was filled with still lifes and colourful vases, its walls a soothing persimmon. Once the Earl’s bedchamber, the room now serves as a meeting chamber for the Royal Academy’s governing body, as demonstrated by the large table commanding the central attention of the space.
Mary Moser’s flower paintings take centre stage, standing amid their contemporary counterparts with a beautifully framed assurance.
The Tennant Gallery’s 19th-century mermaid
The Tennant Gallery was my personal favourite. Beyond its generous lighting – a welcome reprieve from the foggy natural light that smothered the other five rooms – I found myself surrounded by women, their glossy eyes following me as I paced, each portrait telling a vastly different story.
A ginger-haired mermaid ensnared me at once. The delicate scales of her tail, the sweeping rock formations in the background – the effect was enchanting, grounding. Inspired by Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem, The Mermaid, John William Waterhouse sought to portray a young mermaid, lovelorn, lonely, and vulnerable.
That being said, the Pre-Raphaelite painter had been fascinated by the inherent darkness of mermaid mythology, for the creatures lured passing sailors to their death, their tears said to form the pearls nestled in the opalescent shell beside her. Her face speaks of innocence; she appears young, naive, desperate for the love of another. One might find this deception chilling, but I see in it a distinctly human complexity. Within the frame lies a character whose inner self remains tantalisingly beyond our grasp; to presume we understand anything about the mermaid would be a disservice to both Waterhouse’s work and the mermaid herself.
Cupid and Jupiter above the Richard Sharp Council Room
Originally a stairwell, the Richard Sharp Council Room is an unassuming connecting space, its walls an unremarkable grey – until one looks up. Above the dimly lit room sits a thunderous Jupiter in his throne as he challenges Cupid, who has come before him to seek permission to marry Psyche, his mortal lover. Ricci had been commissioned by Countess Juliana Boyle to paint the fresco, an optimistic celebration of love.
Eileen Agar’s abstract Collective Unconscious also adorns the room, its vibrant Surrealist palette and eclectic shapes inspired by what she called “daytime dreams”. Agar drew upon her subconscious in creating the work, eagerly seeking novel ideas and unconventional visual motifs.
Glancing between Cupid before Jupiter and Collective Unconscious, I pondered the versatility of the dreamlike state. The fresco above me embodied a much more traditional vision of dreaminess, an almost boundless tranquillity in its Baroque clouds and angel wings. Agar’s painting, by contrast, resembles the chaos in the back of our minds, persistent even in our calmest moments, as disparate thoughts occasionally collide and mingle.
The John Madejski Fine Rooms are open to the public until 29 January 2027.
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