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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Artemisia Gentileschi, 'Jael and Sisera', c.1620

My eye firstly notices the hand wielding the hammer above the unsuspecting man's head. Gentileschi is depicting a new and particularly horrible kind of weapon here instead of the huge sword she gave Judith to slice Holofernes' head off in 1620. The tent peg seems all the more violent, especially as the viewer is looking at the split second before the deed has been committed. Moreover, the gaze of the women (Jael) is focused and calm, making the piece seem unnerving. This is not a moment of hesitation but a snapshot of action - the woman has made up her mind and will commit to this murder. The viewer can only imagine how Gentileschi would have depicted the bloody aftermath, in her usual violent and tenebristic way. The fact that the artist has signed her name in the tomb-like stone above the man is significant - she is signing his life away in this painting, sending him swiftly to the grave. The body of the man (Sisera) is also interestingly depicted. He lies in a rather eff...

Cellini, 'Perseus with the Head of Medusa', 1545-1554

My eye is immediately drawn to the head of Medusa. At first glance it looks gruesome, as though Cellini has captured the moment just after the head has been decapitated, and it oozes blood and bodily matter. However the viewer then notices the similarity between that and Medusa's hair. Maybe it is just her hair after all. Cellini has cleverly enticed the viewer in here, to take a closer look and therefore involved them in the sculpture as a whole. Once they do come closer, they begin to notice other things such as the similarity between Perseus' hair and Medusa's snakes. Hero and monster are not so separate. Even the features of their faces are very similar. Perhaps Cellini wants to suggest that evil can often wear the mask of good. Or he could even be implying that everyone has some evil within them, even the hero Perseus. One of the good things about sculpture is that the viewer is able to walk around it, and fully immerse themselves in the piece. Cellini has used this...

John Everett Millais, 'Peace Concluded', 1856

My eye is drawn to the copy of The Times clutched in the hands of the officer. The white of the figurine on the man's knee and the white of his wife's sleeves all serve to make the white paper stand out even more on the canvas. As the title of the painting suggests, this is about the end of the Crimean War, seemingly depicting a soldier who has just returned home, surrounded by his family, but the mood is perhaps less euphoric than you might expect. The soldier seems somber and weary, and his wife has a look of concern. Although on the surface it seems to be quite a harmonious composition representing a close knit and traditional family, the positioning of the man is odd. It is his wife who takes her place at the apex of the triangular composition, the soldier is reduced to an emasculated role, perhaps an invalid, as suggested by the blanket over his legs. Her face is passive, but not exactly positive. With her arms draped around her husband, she looks posed, dutiful but not...

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