Compton -Emma Talbot

Image ©annabelrainbow

Let’s talk about art. Not the kind that matches your sofa, but the kind that tells a story and sometimes makes you cry.

There’s a certain type of art that sells easily. You know the one: abstract swirls in calming tones, pretty florals that look lovely above the fireplace, or noble-looking animals painted with glossy precision. These pieces have their place. They soothe, they suit interiors, and they don’t ask too many questions. They’re what’s called “respectable houseguests”. They show up, look good in the corner, and never bring up politics at dinner. Absolutely good luck and best wishes to those that can make it - I’m not having a go! We all need our homes, our places of rest, to be warm, welcoming, and safe; and sales are nice too. And who would argue about the value of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers?!

But then there’s another kind of art, like those on show at Compton Verney by Emma Talbot. The kind that doesn’t always coordinate with your cushions. The kind that sometimes makes you feel uncomfortable, or thoughtful, or unexpectedly emotional. This is the art rooted in people’s real lives, their histories, and the messy, beautiful, complicated stories that so often go untold. It’s art that listens before it speaks, and then it speaks volumes.

So why make that kind of art, when you could just paint a perfectly nice vase of tulips and call it a day?

Because the world doesn’t really need another anonymous painting of daisies. What it needs, perhaps now more than ever, is art that records who we are, where we’ve come from, and what we’ve lived through. We need art that serves as a living archive of human experience, capturing not just the headlines but the footnotes: the quiet moments, the forgotten voices, the personal histories that never make it into textbooks but shape lives and communities all the same.

Art connected to social history isn’t just about hardship or nostalgia. It’s also about joy, resilience, resistance, and those gloriously ordinary moments that make up a life. It’s about someone’s nan who worked in a factory for forty years and still made time to dance every Saturday. It’s about migration, celebration, protest, grief, food, family, friendship and everything in between. These stories matter. And when they’re transformed into visual, tactile or immersive art, they become something others can see, feel and carry with them.

Of course, this sort of art doesn’t always fly off the gallery wall. It’s not always “commercial”. You probably won’t see it printed on greetings cards or mass-produced for living room walls. But its value lies elsewhere. It sparks conversation. It builds empathy. And it helps preserve the human story; not the polished, edited version, but the real one.

Think of it this way: abstract art might be the background music of a room, but art grounded in people’s stories? That’s the full-blown documentary that makes you stop what you’re doing, sit down, and really listen.

And honestly, isn’t that what art is for?

When my mother was dying, I was with her for the last 10 days or so of her life. I held her hand the whole of her last day. I saw someone I loved die in front of me; take her last breath; and shut her eyes for her. Yesterday I read this and cried. It was like being shot, visceral and to the point. That sums up the difference for me.