The Ambassadors: Great Art Explained

Hello, my name is James Payne and I'm very excited to launch a self-guided audio tour of the National Gallery in London. Details at the end of this video. In 1533 all eyes were on London. Henry VIII was about to break with the Catholic Church, marry Anne Boleyn and change the course of English history forever. Spies gathered intelligence, diplomats traded secrets and alliances shifted by the day. At the heart of this political storm two French ambassadors were immortalised by Hans Holbein in what has become one of the most mysterious paintings of the Renaissance. At first glance it is simply a portrait of two wealthy diplomats. Look closer and it reveals hidden symbols, coded messages and unsettling clues about power, religion, knowledge and death. But who were these men? Why was the painting commissioned? And could this extraordinary image have done more than record history, could it have helped shape it? Behind it all stood Hans Holbein the Younger, an ambitious German immigrant whose outsider's eye transformed Tudor England into some of the most unforgettable images in Western art. The great irony is that many of the pictures we think of as defining English history were painted by someone who wasn't English at all. The Ambassadors isn't just one of the greatest portraits ever painted, it may also be one of the most politically dangerous. Hans Holbein the Younger was born in Augsburg in southern Germany during the winter of 1497 into a family of painters. His father Hans Holbein the Elder ran one of the city's most respected workshops producing religious altarpieces for churches and wealthy patrons across the region. Hans and his older brother Ambrosius were part of the family studio. The workshop was busy and well regarded but despite its success the Holbein family often struggled financially. In the 1510s the two brothers left Augsburg and travelled south to Basel, Switzerland and it was here that Holbein's career really took off. In 1523 he received a commission that would change his life. He was to paint the famous scholar and philosopher Erasmus. Erasmus was so pleased with the first portrait that he immediately commissioned another. The portraits were far more than likenesses. Erasmus sent paintings of himself to influential figures across Europe including members of the English court. These were carefully crafted acts of self-promotion, a sort of calling card projecting the image of a learned and thoughtful humanist while cultivating powerful friends and potential patrons. As Erasmus's reputation spread so did Holbein's and for the first time his work was seen in England. Erasmus gave Holbein a letter of introduction to his close friend Sir Thomas More, Henry VIII's future chancellor. In 1526 the artist travelled to England, lived in More's household and painted many of the kingdom's leading figures before returning to Basel in 1528. His portrait of More astonished the English court with its realism capturing not only velvet, beard stubble, fur and flesh but also the intellectual authority and moral seriousness that made More one of Europe's most admired men. But Erasmus's importance to Holbein went beyond opening doors. He introduced the young artist to renaissance humanism, the belief that education, reason and the rediscovery of the classical world could improve both the individual and society. It changed the way Holbein thought about portraiture. A portrait no longer had to simply record someone's appearance. Books, globes, scientific instruments and carefully chosen objects could reveal a sitter's intellect, beliefs and ambitions just as clearly as their face. It was an idea Holbein would perfect in The Ambassadors. When we picture Tudor England today we are often seeing it through Holbein's eyes. His portraits have become the visual language of the age, shaping how generations of school children and much of the world imagine the court of Henry VIII. England had talented artists before Holbein but few painters capable of the breathtaking illusionism of the northern renaissance. Trained in Augsburg and Basel, Holbein brought an artistic tradition that prized meticulous observation, realism and layers of symbolic meaning. Details were rendered with a precision rarely seen in English painting, often painted with a single hair brush. But Holbein brought something else, an outsider's eye. Like the two French ambassadors he would later paint, he inhabited an international world of travel, diplomacy and intellectual exchange. Paradoxically his status as a foreigner became one of his greatest strengths. When Holbein returned to England in 1532 things had changed. Henry VIII's court was increasingly divided by rivalries and shifting alliances and Berlin became one of his patrons, followed by Yet the artist remained largely outside the factional struggles consuming the Tudor elite. As a foreign artist he could move between competing circles with unusual freedom. Meanwhile Europe was being divided by the reformation, while Henry's determination to end his marriage to Catherine of Aragon was transforming England's political and religious landscape. Holbein had arrived at the centre of one of the defining dramas of the 16th century and through his portraits he would become one of its greatest witnesses. In 1527 Henry petitioned Pope Clement VII to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon so that he could marry Anne Boleyn. The timing was disastrous. Rome was sacked in May that year and Clement effectively fell under the power of Catherine's nephew, Emperor Charles V. Granting Henry's request therefore became politically extremely difficult. For years Henry tried unsuccessfully to secure the annulment through Rome, but as the dispute dragged on he increasingly challenged the Pope's authority in England. By 1533, the year Holbein painted the ambassadors, the reformation had already fractured European Christianity, but England's legal break with Rome had not yet happened. The crisis was still unfolding and nobody knew exactly where it would lead. This left the French king, Francis I, with a difficult balancing act. He wanted to maintain his relationship with Henry without provoking either the Pope or his great rival Emperor Charles V. France needed a skilled diplomat at the English court to gather intelligence, influence events and navigate the crisis, and that man was Jean de Dinteville. It is almost impossible to understand this painting without knowing about the period in which it was created. Anne Boleyn was an intelligent and highly educated young woman who had spent years at the French court, where she encountered the humanist and reformist ideas spreading across Europe, and she almost certainly knew Dinteville. In 1533 he was sent to England to report on the deteriorating relationship between Henry VIII and the Pope, and at the same time he was there to strengthen the Anglo-French alliance against the growing power of the Habsburg Empire. He had arrived at a crucial moment. Henry and Anne had secretly married in January 1533. Dinteville's planned short stay was extended as events accelerated. Anne became pregnant and he found himself at the heart of the crisis. On the 11th of April, Henry's court formally acknowledged Anne as Queen. Dinteville was there. His presence mattered to the English court because it suggested that France supported Henry at a moment when England was becoming increasingly isolated from Rome. Around this time, Dinteville was joined in London by his friend Georges de Selve, Bishop of Lavaux. De Selve was an experienced diplomat who was made a bishop at the age of 18, and had travelled across Europe attempting to reconcile the religious divisions tearing the continent apart. His visit to England was a brief one, just a few weeks, but it brought the two close friends together at a And somehow, during those chaotic few weeks, they found time to sit for Holbein. We don't know exactly why the Ambassadors was painted, we know Dinteville owned it and probably commissioned it, although other theories have been proposed. What we do know is that two men accustomed to working quietly behind the scenes were immortalized in one of the most famous paintings of the Northern Renaissance, and the political and religious crisis surrounding them seems to have found its way into the painting itself. Peculiar objects, hidden meanings and religious clues fill the painting, but the biggest clue to understanding it is also its strangest. Like the Garden of Earthly Delights painted just over 20 years earlier, the Ambassadors is a puzzle, a game and a discussion point, a theory I explore in my video on Hieronymus Bosch. Holbein rarely signed his works, and the elaborate signature here suggests that he was exceptionally proud of this double portrait. It was painted in oil on 10 oak boards. It is also unusually large, almost life-size, giving the two men a physical presence that is difficult to appreciate in reproductions. Almost no preparatory drawings survive, although infrared photography has revealed some of Holbein's underdrawing beneath the paint. The composition itself is built around balance. The two men stand on either side of a two-tiered table in front of a huge green damask curtain, turned slightly towards one another, but looking directly at us. Their poses almost mirror each other. The arrangement has sometimes been compared to marriage portraits, and we can also compare it to Holbein's earlier work, which itself contains a skull in the foreground and instruments of time. But it may also reflect a classical renaissance idea about friendship. Aristotle described the perfect friend as a second self, someone in whom we recognize and understand ourselves. Erasmus, Holbein's mentor, later embraced the same idea. And there is something of that relationship in the way Holbein presents these two friends, not only as complementary figures, but as close, intimate allies. On the left is Jean de Dinteville, the French ambassador to England, representing what renaissance thinkers call the active life. In other words, a lifestyle dedicated to public service, political action, and engagement with the physical world. He is dressed in expensive pink satin, luxurious velvet, and lynx fur, which by law only nobles could wear. Around his neck is the Order of St. Michael, awarded to him by Francis I, while the dagger in his hand is inscribed with his age, 29. His black cap is decorated with tiny gold tags, or aglets, and a small skull badge, a symbol which we will come back to later. This style of flat cap was extremely fashionable, and can also be seen in portraits of both Holbein and Francis I. Holbein's ability to paint all of this is astonishing. Individual strands of fur catch the light, metal glimmers, and satin folds and ripples. On the tassel, hanging from Dinteville's dagger, the artist even applied real gold leaf. This intense observation came from the northern European tradition in which the artist had been trained, where painters were skilled at making paint imitate the textures of the physical world. Opposite Dinteville is Georges de Selve, a French scholar, diplomat, and bishop. Holbein tells us his age too, on the edge of the book beneath his arm. He was 24. De Selve, as a bishop, appears quieter and more restrained, although his clothes were hardly modest. His satin cloak is lined and edged with expensive sable, something a contemporary viewer would have immediately recognized. But this isn't a story of wealth versus modesty. The contrast between the two men would have been familiar to an educated Renaissance audience. Dinteville is there to represent the active, worldly life, while de Selve is there to represent the contemplative life of scholarship and religion. Between the two men is a remarkable collection of objects relating to mathematics, music, astronomy, and geography. And just as Holbein has divided the two men between action and contemplation, he divides these objects between heaven and earth. The upper shelf is concerned largely with the heavens. There are a celestial globe, sundials, and instruments used to measure time and calculate the position of the stars. Among them is a torquetum, a sophisticated astronomical instrument used to translate between different systems, for mapping the heavens. Another instrument, known as a shepherd's dial, has been interpreted as showing the date, 11th of April, 1533. If that interpretation is correct, the date is significant. It was the day Anne Boleyn was formally acknowledged as queen, an event Dinteville witnessed. But it was also Good Friday, commemorating the crucifixion of Christ. These instruments represent one of the great beliefs of the Renaissance, that through observation, mathematics, and reason, human beings could begin to understand the universe. The shelf itself is covered by a luxurious Ottoman carpet, another reminder of the international world these men inhabited. Carpets of this type were imported into Europe from the Islamic world, and became such familiar features of Renaissance paintings, that examples with similar geometric designs are still sometimes called Holbein carpets. The lower shelf brings us back to Earth. Here we find an upside-down terrestrial globe, mathematical instruments, an arithmetic book, a lute, a case of flutes, and a German hymn book. Important places are marked on the globe. Dinteville's home at Polésie is there, alongside Paris and Lyon, the centers of French monarchy. Rome, Jerusalem, and Nuremberg. Rome is shown as being more or less at the geometric center of the world, and Jerusalem can be found directly in the direction of Dinteville's dagger. For two diplomats whose lives depended upon alliances, borders, and the movement of information, geography was not an abstract subject. It was the world they negotiated every day. But there is something different about the objects on this lower shelf. The instruments on the top shelf might suggest humanity's ability to impose order on the universe, but those below on the bottom shelf begin to suggest a world in which that order is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. The most obvious example is the lute. Music was traditionally associated with harmony, but one of its strings has broken, a symbol of discord. Besides it is a case of flutes, but with one of them conspicuously missing. Then there is the arithmetic book, held open with a set square. The page Holbein has chosen concerns mathematical division, which may be entirely practical, but in the context of the other objects the word division inevitably takes on another meaning. Europe in 1533 was divided politically, but interestingly it was religion that threatened to pull it apart. This brings us to one of the most intriguing objects in the painting, placed directly underneath the broken lute. A German hymn book opened to hymns written by Martin Luther, the instigator of the protestant reformation. It should be noted that Luther himself was a musician who played both the lute and the flute, and he believed strongly in the importance of music in worship. So the musical objects and the hymn book may be more closely connected than they first appear. Today with hindsight we know that the reformation would permanently transform Europe, but Holbein and his sitters did not. In 1533 its outcome was still uncertain, and the possibility that western Christianity might be permanently divided, was something men like Dantville and De Selve were dealing with in real time. That makes the presence of Luther's hymns in a portrait of two catholic diplomats particularly noticeable. De Selve had spent much of his diplomatic career attempting to reconcile religious differences, while Dantville was in England precisely because Henry VIII's confrontation with Rome threatened to alter the political balance of Europe. Even the floor underneath them may have a contemporary resonance. Its intricate geometric design is based on the medieval cosmarty pavement in Westminster Abbey, where Anne Boleyn stood during her coronation in June 1533. Although in renaissance and medieval philosophy cosmarty floors were not just decorative, they were physical diagrams of the universe. Holbein therefore gives us a painting full of humanity's attempts to create order. Mathematics measure, astronomy maps the heavens, and music turns individual notes into harmony. Yet on the lower shelf that harmony has been disturbed. The globe is upturned, the string is broken, the flute is missing, and the arithmetic book lies open at division. Whether every one of these details was intended as a political symbol is impossible to know, but when seen together they would have resonated with two diplomats living through a period when the religious and political order of Europe was beginning to come apart. Then across the bottom of the painting Holbein introduces something that puts even these great events into perspective. Floating across the beautiful pavement is a strange elongated form which seems completely at odds with the precision of everything around it. It is so difficult to read that a 19th century curator at the National Gallery apparently thought it might be a cuttlefish bone. In fact it is a human skull. The skull is anamorphic, meaning that Holbein had deliberately distorted it so that it only becomes recognisable when seen from a particular angle. Stand directly in front of the painting and it is almost meaningless. Move to the side and look back across the surface and the skull suddenly comes into focus. Anamorphosis fascinated renaissance artists because it brought together painting, mathematics, and the developing understanding of perspective and vision. Leonardo da Vinci had experimented with distorted images and producing something as sophisticated as Holbein's skull needed considerable geometrical knowledge, but this is more than a demonstration of technical skill. The skull is a memento mori, literally a reminder that you will die. Such reminders of mortality were common in northern European art and would later become central to the Vanitas paintings of the 17th century, where books, musical instruments, money, and other worldly possessions were shown alongside skulls. Reminders that everything is temporary. This idea also had a personal connection to Dantville, who used memento mori as his motto and as noted previously Holbein has even included a tiny skull on the badge attached to Dantville's hat. The enormous skull across the bottom of the painting takes that private message and makes it impossible to ignore, although strangely it can only be properly seen when the rest of the painting cannot. What we have to imagine is walking into the room, for a moment you see death, then you move around the painting and the skull disappears. In its place was this extraordinary display of worldly achievement. Books, music, globes, expensive timepieces, and scientific instruments. That gives the anamorphic skull a meaning beyond optical trickery. Almost every object between Dantville and Dessauves is concerned with humanity's ability to measure the world, but none of these extraordinary instruments can tell either man how much time he personally has left. There is one more detail to discuss and it is easy to miss. In the upper left corner, partly concealed behind the green curtain, is a small crucifix. It is usually one of the last things a viewer notices, even today, and that seems deliberate. Christ has been pushed almost to the edge of this enormous display of knowledge and worldly possessions. Holbein is not necessarily condemning any of this, quite the opposite. The extraordinary care with which he paints these objects suggests a fascination with the material world, and with what human beings can know, make, and achieve. But I believe he is telling us that all of this only exists within the limits of a human lifetime. Both men will die, that is certain. Their worldly possessions will disappear, and religious divisions will be forgotten, and the world they knew would change beyond recognition. Which brings us back to that almost hidden crucifix. The skull tells us that death is inevitable, that worldly possessions mean nothing. The crucifix suggests the promise of resurrection. So perhaps the final message of the ambassadors is not death at all. Almost hidden at the edge of the painting is the possibility of eternal life. It is one of history's great ironies that the artist who gave us our defining image of Tudor England was himself an immigrant. Holbein brought the realism, technical brilliance, and intellectual sophistication of the northern renaissance, and combined them with the people, politics, and culture he encountered in England. In the ambassadors he captured a world in transition, one of extraordinary intellectual confidence, but also fractured by political ambition, religious conflict, and uncertainty. Almost 500 years later the painting still refuses to give up all its secrets. It is a portrait of two men, a display of knowledge, a political statement, a meditation on faith, and a confrontation with death. All of these things at the same time. Holbein transformed English portraiture, making it more psychologically penetrating, intellectually ambitious, and rich with symbolic meaning. The image we carry of Tudor England is in large part the creation of a German artist, and perhaps that is Holbein's final legacy. A reminder that cultures are rarely shaped in isolation, but transformed by the people, ideas, and traditions that cross their borders. Hello, I hope you enjoyed the video. I've recently fulfilled a lifelong ambition of recording a self-guided audio tour of the National Gallery in London, on an app called Voicemap, and one of those stops is the ambassadors. The tour follows a set route through the gallery, showing you which works to see, what order to see them in, and exactly how to find them. It took me months of research, editing, and planning, and I'm so pleased that it's finally out. Here's how it works. The app gives you directions and a photo of the next painting. When you arrive, you tap I'm here, and you'll hear me explain all the fascinating details the gallery labels don't have room for. There's no planning, and no wandering around trying to find things. You go at your own pace, skip anything you're not fussed about, and once you've bought the tour, it's yours to keep. To get it, click the link in the description, or download the Voicemap app, and search for Great Art Explained. Here's what you get. A full route through the gallery, with clear directions and photos guiding you to every stop. Classic Great Art Explained storytelling. Succinct, straightforward, and no complicated jargon. Here's an example. There are so many hidden intricate details in this tiny work of art. Most of it propaganda for Richard's divine right to rule. If you're short on time, skip straight to the highlights, or do the whole thing at your own pace, even over two days. It works entirely on your phone, and once downloaded, you don't need wi-fi. You can pause, rewind, and linger as long as you like, then tap I'm here when you're ready to move on. Links in the description below. If you use it, let me know what you thought. Thank you.