Paintings and perverts: the horrid legacy of Eric Gill

In a watercolour measuring only 9 cm by 12 cm, the Angel Gabriel towers above the kneeling Virgin. The bedroom is small, almost claustrophobic, although the barred window is open to the night sky. Fiat mihi and Ave Maria are written on the walls, backwards — the painting is in mirror image, designed to be shown through a mirrorscope. The Virgin’s face is raised; there is trepidation there, and passive stillness. Her clothes are dark and plain; there is a vague suggestion of a halo. Gabriel, by contrast, looms large; he is all movement and flourish in striped robes, arm raised heavenward, halo full of light and colour, instructing and announcing in the enclosed space.

This is Eric Gill’s Annunciation, painted in 1912, the year before his conversion to Catholicism. It hangs in It Takes a Village, which is showing at the Ditchling Museum of Art + Craft, near Brighton, until February 2026. The exhibition is of the work of Gill’s circle, which was based at Ditchling during the early 1920s. It was established as a radical religious and craft community, focusing on the “goodness” of the things that were to be made — as shown by the exquisite creations on display.

There are fine weavings, silver work and carvings, produced in the community that was committed to the philosophy of distributism: that all should be held in common, in keeping with what Acts suggests was the practice of the early Church. The ideas resonate with contemporary concerns around waste and consumerism — the philosophy focused on few objects, beautifully made, and wanted artisans to work for the joy of their creations.

Some of the most beautiful exhibits are the spiritual works of the artist David Jones, who lived at the community and who was engaged for a while to Gill’s daughter Petra — she was his model for the lovely Madonna of the Hills, painted against the backdrop of the Downs.

Gill’s Annunciation hangs in a separate space. It is not recommended for those under 16, in response to concerns from the Methodist Survivors Advisory Group. Many survivors of sexual abuse see the painting as full of threat: the small, submissive girl; the dominant angel, full of charisma. Gill, as we now know, had sexual relationships with his prepubescent daughters, with his sister, and with his dog.

The Methodist Church, to whom the Annunciation belongs, decided to remove it from a place of worship once Gill’s proclivities became known, but has agreed to show the painting alongside studies of the daughters, and Petra’s handmade wedding dress — itself an object of beauty — so that victims are not lost in the narrative surrounding Gill himself. Adjacent are other interpretations of the same scene by David Jones and Philip Hagreen.

The visitor is told that “a key part of the exhibition looks at the work and legacy of Eric Gill. In a first-of-its-kind collaboration, survivors of abuse have co-curated the display which focuses on the experiences of Gill’s daughters, Petra and Elizabeth, offering space for a thoughtful and sensitive retelling of their stories, family lives and creative careers.”

But what of Gill’s other work? Among the best examples are his Stations of the Cross in Westminster Cathedral, praised for their simplicity and for their lack of sentimentality. The narrative speaks its own tragedy without further embellishment; the reliefs recognise the practicalities of the crucifixion through the eyes of working people. Gill’s work acknowledges the relationship between spirituality and simple, honest labour.

The reliefs, with their large gold haloes and red Latin calligraphy, became subjects of controversy as details of Gill’s abuse emerged in the 1990s. There have been calls to have them removed from the cathedral. Victims of sexual abuse feel it is impossible for them to worship there, but the reliefs remain in place.

Is it possible to separate the art from the artist? In the notorious case of Fr Marco Rupnik, reported in the Herald and elsewhere, the Vatican has clearly decided that it is not; or at least the removal of his work from the Vatican Media website suggests that it is not. His extraordinary mosaics remain in place in many churches across the world, however. The shrine at Lourdes, for example, destination for many in need of spiritual healing, has become a focus: its Rupnik mosaics have been boarded up. Now the mosaic on the nearby Basilica of Our Lady of the Rosary has also been replaced by ugly boarding. There is no solace there for the sick in mind or body; the jury is out on whether or not they are to be removed.

The personal lives of Filippo Lippi, Caravaggio and Klimt, once revealed, mean that their paintings are looked at with new eyes. Perhaps more important, in 2025, is for the Church, as indeed for the state, to follow the lead of Ditchling. Admire the art, consider the context, and, most importantly of all, take strong steps to prevent abuse from happening now, in all its forms. Anything else smacks of posturing.

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