John Martin, 'The Great Day of his Wrath', 1851-3

My eye is drawn to the void in the centre of the canvas. Darkness is hard to depict well, but in this painting John Martin makes it the heart of the picture. The crumbling, lightning-shattered rocks are tumbling towards paint so black, it is simply a hole in the canvas. It sucks me in, like the other helpless scraps of humanity in the foreground, and the blackness spills forward, overflowing towards the viewer like a river of death. Martin's canvas surrounds the viewer, disorientating them and engulfing them. It is as if they are there in the foreground, scrabbling on the slope and pushing away the bodies to selfishly save themselves.

Martin’s use of scale and perspective emphasise the three dimensionality and endless depth right back to the fierce red burn of the sun in the centre. The painting is huge but it is not all about grand scale – what keeps you looking are the details. In the foreground, the focus is on suffering individuals: the strain on the bodies is agonising, palpable. A woman on the right has one arm outstretched to the sky, pleading to a higher power for mercy, even as others are pulling her down, highlighting the futile efforts of humanity in the face of God. There is no literal or metaphorical path to redemption in sight. The only path is downwards, into the void.

The 'mountains' on the right are actually a Minas Tirith-like city which has been shattered stone by stone. Like Hokusai's Great Wave, Martin has captured the moment when the crest becomes top-heavy and topples the whole body of water over. But this is not water, it is rock. And the columns are not just buildings, they represent civilisation. You can look at this painting upside down and it is still as thrilling because Martin created a world beyond rules. But ultimately you come back to its black heart: the world will end as it began, in nothingness.

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