Review
Art
Culture
5 min read

The dot and the dash: modern art’s quiet search for deeper meaning

Neo-Impressionism meets mysticism in a quietly radical exhibition

Jonathan is Team Rector for Wickford and Runwell. He is co-author of The Secret Chord, and writes on the arts.

Van Gogh's painting of a sower, walking across a field as the sun sets.
Vincent van Gogh, The Sower.
Kröller-Müller Museum. Photographer: Rik Klein Gotink.

When Helene Kröller-Müller was introduced to charismatic art teacher H.P Bremmer in 1905, she came to view art as the conveyance of a spiritual experience. With Bremmer as her art adviser, she built an art collection and museum intended as a centre for spiritual life, set in the tranquillity of nature. A significant part of that collection is currently on show at the National Gallery providing an opportunity to see connections between modern art and spirituality which were always there but generally had not been highlighted by art curators or critics of the past. 

The focus of Radical Harmony at the National Gallery is the Neo-Impressionist art of Georges Seurat and Paul Signac. However, Kröller-Müller and Bremmer were also early collectors of the work of Vincent Van Gogh, an example of whose work is included in the show. As the Neo-Impressionists were artists who used small dots of paint to create their images while Van Gogh used broad dashes of pigment, this exhibition is an exploration of the spirituality of the dot versus the spirituality of the dash. 

Neo-Impressionists painted in small dots of pure colour. Viewed from a distance, the colours blend to create nuanced tones and an illusion of light. Now known as pointillism (although this name was not liked by the artists themselves), this technique simplified form and played with colour in an entirely new way, verging on the edge of abstraction. 

The Neo-Impressionist's dots of colour were carefully and deliberately placed to sit still on their canvases creating an overall sense of harmony and calm. It was this quality of peacefulness in their work that attracted Kröller-Müller. She spoke of these works being 'light and delicate, spiritual in content and style' and of Seurat's work as expressing 'emotion of religious-poetic disposition'.  

That was not how Seurat himself viewed his work. He viewed his approach as being more like a scientific method, but Kröller-Müller’s perceptions do have synergies with the work and religious inspirations of other Neo-Impressionist artists whose work is included here, particularly that of Jan Toorop and Johan Thorn Prikker. Both Toorop and Thorn Prikker also made works in a mystical Symbolist style, while Toorop, around the 1930s, became one of the most reproduced artists of his time, through his prints of Roman Catholic iconography. 

By contrast with the stillness of the Neo-Impressionist’s dots, the dashes used by Van Gogh possess a much greater sense of energy and movement. Each dash shows the direction of the brushstroke with which it was created and the cumulative effect of the dashes, set alongside each other, leads the eye across the image. Many of Van Gogh’s images, as which ‘The Sower’ included here, have a central sun forming a halo effect, with its rays, depicted as dashes, emanating from the flaming yellow orb and infusing the remainder of the image with its divine light and energy. Van Gogh viewed Christ as a ‘glowing light or blazing sun’ and used the dashes in his work to imply the divine presence in the world and its landscapes. 

In the exhibition, the contrast with dots that is provided by dashes is also apparent in a series of three heavily abstracted landscapes by Thorn Prikker, which draw on the approach of Van Gogh to create movement and energy throughout the entire image in contrast to the calm and stillness of landscapes created using dots of colour. Within their mystical Symbolistic images, Thorn Prikker and Toorop created a similar effect using continuous flowing sinuous lines. 

The contrast between the two styles was clearly apparent in the museum that Kröller-Müller opened in The Hague in 1913. There, in the spacious front room, Van Gogh’s paintings hung ‘powerful, dramatic & heavy’, ‘like life itself, like our reality’. In an adjoining room, ‘she created a lighter and more mystical atmosphere’ by hanging the works of Seurat, Signac and Théo van Rysselberghe. She wrote that as you came from one into the other, you would ‘suddenly stand in a completely different world’; being among the Neo-Impressionist works was to be where everything was light and tingling as ‘a French sun rises’. 

Bremmer and Kröller-Müller were early collectors of work by Van Gogh (as, too, was Anna Boch, an artist who also features in this show) regarding him ‘as the ultimate example of an artist who was filled with a sacred respect for everyday reality’. They also viewed Pointillism as ‘a spiritualisation of art’, as ‘applying the colour to the canvas dot by dot’ was done ‘in order to contemplate things more calmly and profoundly’.  

This focus on contemplation informed not only their collecting but also the design of the purpose-built museum that was opened in 1938, for which the artist Henry van de Velde was the architect. Van de Velde’s own Neo-Impressionist art also features in this exhibition, and he summed up the focus that he, Bremmer and Kröller-Müller had on contemplation of images in sympathetic architectural spaces, when he wrote of wanting: 

‘To establish the Dream of realities, the Ineffable soaring above them, to dissect them without pity to see their Soul, to strive for the pursuit of the Intangible and meditate – in silence – to inscribe the mysterious Meaning.’ 

Enabling such contemplation was the aim of these three and this exhibition reveals how and why they followed that aim. In doing so, the exhibition reveals more to us about the connections found and made between art and spirituality early on in the development of modern art. These are connections which have been overlooked in earlier discussions and presentations of Neo-Impressionism but which are being helpful and rightly rediscovered and represented in the present.  

Visit this exhibition to gain that understanding but also to take the opportunity, as Bremmer, Kröller-Müller and Van de Velde desired, to meditate in silence ‘to inscribe the mysterious Meaning’ of the works you will see. 

 

Radical Harmony: Helene Kröller-Müller's Neo-Impressionists, 13 September 2025 - 8 February 2026, National Gallery

Support Seen & Unseen

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?

Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief

Explainer
Attention
Culture
Mental Health
War & peace
4 min read

Keep calm and don’t cry? Why Remembrance Day needs emotion

We gather to grieve—but only in ways that won’t make others uncomfortable
King Charles saltues.
King Charles, Remembrance Sunday, 2023.
The Royal Family.

In the coming days across Britain, the poppied public will gather around cenotaphs. Polished boots, flapping scarves, bowed heads, fidgety Brownie-Guides, regimented Cadets – all will pause in hushed reverence as the Last Post echoes in the cold air. It’s a scene that’s meant to unite us, a national ritual of grief and gratitude. 

 

But for one close friend of mine, it is a ritual that is almost unbearable. She doesn’t go to local remembrance events anymore. Not because she doesn’t care, but because she cares so deeply that she weeps. Real tears - big ugly ones. And while the music is designed to evoke poignancy, and the silence is meant to be solemn, she fears that her public displays of emotion are perceived by those around her as a bit over the top. Surely the British stiff upper lip ought not to tremble, let alone cry? We are the nation of Keep Calm and Carry On after all. So, she stays away. 

 

Philosopher Sara Ahmed, in her book The Cultural Politics of Emotion, offers some profound insights into why we act the way we do about our feelings. Ahmed writes that emotions are often cast as a kind of weakness – a betrayal of our ability to reason. They are something messy and animalistic, something we are meant to control. In this view, to show emotion is to reveal that you have been shaped by something or someone outside yourself. It reveals that you are vulnerable, only human after all. 

 

And yet – isn’t that exactly what Remembrance is about? When we gather at a cenotaph, we are not there to demonstrate the stiffness of our upper lips. We are there to grieve; we are there to be moved by the stories of young lives cut short, families broken, sacrifices made. The very design of the ceremony – the bugles, the silence, the laying of wreaths – is intended to stir emotion. Yet, paradoxically, there is a hidden social code of conduct that seems to say: but not too much

 

Ahmed explores several ways in which the social world shapes our emotional lives. Emotions, she argues, are not just private feelings bubbling up from within, they are also social, and they can be contagious. The atmosphere of a Remembrance service is just that – carefully crafted to invoke communal feeling: solemnity, pride, sadness, reverence. The power of such rituals lies in the way they gather us into a collective “we.” But that same collective can turn cold when someone expresses too much, breaks the silent script, or cries too loudly. 

 

In one of his letters to the first Christians, the apostle Paul wrote: “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” It’s a call not just to feel one’s own emotions, but to enter into the emotions of others, to share in them and show solidarity. And this, in essence, is what the cenotaph service is all about. It is a physical and symbolic place to “weep with those who weep” – to acknowledge that loss and grief are not individual experiences, but shared ones. A soldier’s death, whether in historic conflict or in the present day, is not just a family’s burden. A death on behalf of all of us belongs to all of us. 

 

So why do people seem uncomfortable when someone like my friend weeps openly in this space? Perhaps it is the long shadow of British wartime stoicism. At one time, the slogan “Keep calm and carry on” was intended to protect a struggling populace from giving in to despair, it was intended to create a shared emotion of resilience. But perhaps an unfortunate side effect is that it has perpetuated a notion that dignity lies in restraint. This is a cultural script, and it isn’t universal. In many parts of the world, public mourning is expected, even encouraged. Wailing, keening, clutching each other in grief – some cultures see these as honourable ways of expressing sorrow. They honour the dead by fully feeling their absence. 

 

We need to ask ourselves: what is lost when we suppress this kind of mourning? 

 

When we limit how people are allowed to feel – or, at least, how they are allowed to express their feelings – do we risk losing the very power of the ritual? Do we risk turning the cenotaph into a site of performance rather than connection, excluding those who feel too deeply to fit inside a narrow band of “acceptable” solemnity? 

 

This is not a call to abolish the dignity of Remembrance Day. But perhaps it is a plea to broaden our understanding of what dignity can entail. Sometimes, it looks like silent contemplation. But perhaps sometimes it looks like messy tears streaming down your face in front of strangers. Both can be powerful; both can honour the sacrifices of war. 

 

As Ahmed notes, shared emotion can create a sense of “we.” It is why we go to movies together, cry at weddings, laugh at sitcoms in the company of others – emotional moments bond us. In this way, emotions are not just personal, they are political. In the context of Remembrance, they remind us that war is a human tragedy, felt in human hearts. Even though today, fewer families have direct ties to the armed forces, and fewer people personally know someone who has served or died in uniform, yet, the cenotaph ceremony still calls us together and asks us to care, to remember, to mourn – and it gives us permission to cry before we carry on. 

Support Seen & Unseen

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?

Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief