Every picture tells a story

As the National Gallery prepares to celebrate its 200th anniversary in May, Carla Passino delves into the fascinating history of 10 of its paintings, from artistic triumphs to ugly ducklings and a clever fake

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To say nothing of the dog Bacchus and Ariadne lends itself to a cornucopia of superlatives. It is one of the finest works by one of the greatest Old Masters, capturing a scene from one of the most enthralling classical myths, as sung by two of antiquity’s most distinguished poets. It has everything that befits a masterpiece, from captivating colours to dramatic action and exquisite detail: the emotion gripping Ariadne, whose body still faces the ship of faithless Theseus as her face turns towards the carefree Bacchus; the smitten god’s ungraceful leap from his cheetah-drawn chariot, too lost in the princess’s beauty to pay attention to his step; the motley retinue of nymphs, satyrs and a snake-clad Laocoön revelling in a drunken dance; and, up in the sky, golden stars hinting at the couple’s future. Perhaps less fittingly, however, it also includes a little black lap dog, a toy spaniel of the kind so popular in 16th-century courts. It goes up to a young satyr, barking, albeit more curious than menacing.

Titian added the dog at a later stage, possibly as a nod to his patron, Alfonso d’Este, whose companion it may have been (it wears a collar).

This wasn’t the only time the Master showed a penchant for inserting pooches in his work, however, whether in his paintings of the goddess Diana, always surrounded by canine hunting companions, or in his depictions of Venus, who rarely appears without one. Some critics, such as art historian Simona Cohen from the University of Tel Aviv, Israel, believe Titian painted dogs as symbols—at times of seduction, at other times of treachery or human bestiality—but it’s much jollier to think that he simply really liked them.