Hogarth’s Progress
Rose, Kingston                            

THIS double bill from Nick Dear is a bawdy romp — a delve into the seething underbelly of 18th-century London, with its buxom wenches and pox-ridden punters.

Here too are venal politicians, brothel keepers, narcissist actors and devoted servants and at the centre artist William Hogarth, who masks self-doubt in braggadocio, craving critics’ approval, and creating a breathtaking legacy.

Dispensing with cliches, the two plays are a nuanced examination of art, its place in people’s hearts and rich men’s wallets. Hogarth’s work remains as a testament to his great desire that his work should last. He was determined that the Old Masters shouldn’t be the only game in town. “What is art?” he spits. “Is it property or communication? Is it to be owned — or understood?”