It has to be said, the one emotion that the Pre-Raphaelite painters were capable of capturing was boredom. It’s pretty sad when the most exciting thing about a picture is the frame.

I wonder what this model is thinking?

“Just two more hours of this pose and then I can go to the loo.”

You may notice that many Pre-Raphaelite women look similar.

That’s because they only had a few models and they traded them around.

I suppose it takes a special kind of woman to hold a boring pose for a series of paintings that have no emotional content at all without slitting her wrists.

This woman is watering a plant.

The plant has a richer emotional live than she does.

Here is someone playing a musical instrument and someone reading a musical score. Do they look like they are ready to boogie?

No, they are waiting to be picked up by Uber, but the Internet hasn’t been invented yet.

Here’s Romeo just discovering that the love of his live has apparently committed suicide. Is he in a fit of suicidal despair?

No, he is trying to decide which shoes to wear to the funeral.

This woman is trying to remember where she left her personality.

This couple appear to be snuggled on the sofa.

She has fallen asleep from ennui, and he has the glazed look that comes from watching cricket on the telly. (Ennui is boredom that is rich enough to afford a french accent.)

This is Fair Roasmond.

Outside she looks bored, but inside she is plotting revenge on her brother, Unfair Dennis.

But wait, what is this? A poorly executed Othello and Desdemona by John Everett Millais, but showing Othello’s jealousy as well as Millais’ difficulty getting the eyes right.

It was painted by Millais at the age of fourteen, and apparently he grew out of the ability to depict emotion.

To be fair, the Pre-Raphaelite collection is probably the least interesting thing about Wightwick (pronounced Wittick) Manor. It’s a late Victorian mock Tudor Arts & Crafts mansion with considerable charm…

twisted chimneys…

and obscene furniture.

This is euphemistically known as a prostitute’s chair. It is low to the ground, and the arms are shaped so that the occupant’s legs could be spread and hooked over them. Our National Trust guide assured us that it was just a conversation piece, but it just happened to be the most worn piece of furniture in the entire house. We can only assume that the first owner of the house, Theodore Mander, was tired and shagged out after a hard day at the paint factory and said, “Somebody get me a fucking chair,” and his secretary took him seriously.

The house is full of wonderful furnishings and decorations from William Morris and his circle. Here are three of the fireplaces…

some tiles and china…

the great hall…

a stained glass window…

and what I would like to do to the Pre-Raphaelite painters.