The history of clocks is a story of largely unwanted technical capability driven by the requirement for accurate navigation, until the arrival of railways in the middle and late nineteenth century. Until people needed to catch a train run according to a timetable, even towns and cities could proceed at their own pace, and as long as they got the right day, the country could amble along too. Clocks were mostly features of churches and public buildings, and often weren’t even synchronised with the next town. Accordingly, clocks were rare, and were more items of furniture than rulers of the day.

Where they do appear in paintings before the nineteenth century, they’re normally an anachronism.

The title given to this painting by Domenico Maroli from about 1655 is Euclid of Megara Dressing as a Woman to Hear Socrates Teach in Athens, which is baffling enough. Given that Euclid of Megara lived between about 435-365 BCE, the ornate clock at the upper right corner is badly out of time and place. No one is too sure of the time that such clocks first appeared, but it must have been at least 1500 years later.

It gets worse, though. Euclid of Megara was a real figure, a minor Greek philosopher and a pupil of Socrates. He ended up wearing women’s clothing because citizens of Megara were banned from entering Athens, so in order to hear his master’s teaching, he dressed as a woman and entered the city after dark. But Marolì confused that Euclid with the much better-known Euclid of Alexandria, the famous mathematician and geometer, and surrounded the minor philosopher with everything you might associate with the other Euclid, including his anachronistic clock.

When we reach the nineteenth century, clocks feature in remarkably few interiors.

One of the earliest is William Holman Hunt’s The Awakening Conscience, painted during the period 1851-53. Sat in its glass bell case on the top of the piano it an ornate gilt clock, its face turned away but apparently showing the time as five to twelve.

The fashionable young man seated at the piano in this small house in the leafy suburbs of London is clearly in an extra-marital relationship with the young woman, who has half-risen from his lap and now stares absently into the distance. Around them are signs that she’s a kept mistress with time on her hands. Her companion, a cat, is under the table, where it has caught a bird with a broken wing, a symbol of her plight. At the right edge is a tapestry with which to while away the hours, and her wools below form a tangled web in which she is entwined.

Thomas Brooks’ painting of The New Pupil from 1854 shows a disorderly rabble in an English country school, as a mother introduces her reluctant son to his new class. Behind the teacher, at the left, one the boys reaches up to adjust the time on the pendulum clock on the wall, no doubt moving its hand forward to bring a premature end to classes for the day.

Charles Hunt’s Visit to the Schoolroom from 1859 shows a more impressive educational establishment, with a grandfather clock supervising the class from the middle of the back wall. To the left of it is a barometer, even more unusual in a school at that time.

In Rebecca Solomon’s The Appointment from 1861, a beautiful woman stands in front of a mirror and looks intently at a man, who’s only seen in his reflection and stands in a doorway behind the viewer’s right shoulder. The woman is dressed to go out, and is holding a letter in her gloved hands. The clock on the mantelpiece shows that it’s about thirteen minutes past seven, either on a summer’s evening, or in the morning.

Another splendid longcase clock, of a type known as Comtoise or Morbier, appears in the right background of Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret’s An Accident from 1879. At this time, the factory making them in the Franche-Comté region of France was delivering over sixty thousand of them each year, but they’re unusual in paintings.

Viktor Mikhailovich Vasnetsov’s Russian Preference (1879) shows three players of the game known as ‘Russian Preference’ or Preferans. According to the grandfather clock at the right it’s just after four o’clock, which could be in the afternoon or the small hours of the morning. Cast natural light in the doorway suggests it’s still daylight outside, though, as these three play cards to while away the time.

Like those homes, that in Évariste Carpentier’s undated The Reprimand may lack signs of material wealth but they have given their grandfather clock pride of place in the living room. The son is sat on the corner of a simple table with one of his wooden clogs dropped onto the floor. Dressed in multiply patched clothing, he’s being reprimanded by a figure out of the image, beyond its left edge. His mother stands preparing food to the right, and his grandmother sits at the table. Even the family’s black and white dog faces towards the wall, as if in disgrace.

Long before the days of radio let alone television, reading became popular entertainment. LA Ring’s Housewife’s Evening Party from 1905 shows a very different sort of party from those being painted at the time in cities like Paris. This housewife sits knitting, as her husband and a friend discuss a book by the light of the kerosene lantern. They aren’t poor by any means: there are portrait paintings on the wall, and a clock ticking softly above them, showing the time as seventeen minutes to eight.

During the twentieth century, mantelpiece clocks became almost universal, as timekeeping became the rule rather than an exception, but longcase clocks grew increasingly rare. Now it seems few younger people can even read the face of an analogue clock.

In this second article looking at examples of the use of posters in paintings, and how their contents can be relevant, I move on to the last couple of decades of the nineteenth century. By this time large-format colour printing was churning out unprecedented numbers of posters that were being stuck onto walls in public places. These promoted events and products, and the advertising industry was starting to flourish. Posters included in paintings had largely been associated with poverty.

In France, Naturalists like Jean-Eugène Buland took on challenging motifs with challenging readings. In Alms of a Beggar (1880), a young woman dressed immaculately in white is sat outside a church seeking charity. Approaching her, a coin in his right hand, is a man who can only be a beggar himself. His clothes are patched on patches, faded and filthy, and he wears battered old wooden shoes. Yet he is about to give the young woman what is probably his last coin. Buland uses two small posters as decorations, one pinned to the white tablecloth at the left, the other attached to the wooden door at the right.

Those artists like Jean Béraud who were recording street scenes of Paris in the Belle Époque often featured posters.

Béraud’s view of A Windy Day on the Pont des Arts from 1880-1 contains several fascinating details, such as the man carrying his fishing rod among the stream of top-hatted gentlemen. Posters at the right advertise the Fête de Sèvres, held annually in that town each June, but this clearly isn’t a pleasant summer’s day.

Working from his customised studio carriage, Béraud developed a particular affection for the street kiosks that had sprung up on so many corners, and were covered with posters. Parisian Street Scene, claimed to date from about 1885, is one example, on the Boulevard des Italiens from the corner of the Rue Laffitte.

Béraud’s Carriages on the Boulevard des Italiens shows the same kiosk in the golden light of a winter’s afternoon. However, this view is purported to have been painted in 1890, five years after the Parisian Street Scene above. It isn’t credible that the posters illuminated in the kiosk have remained identical over that period.

Just as in London a few years before, posters continue to feature in the background of paintings of those living on the streets. Fernand Pelez’ Homeless from 1883 was exhibited at the Salon in Paris that year, where those viewing it only needed to walk round the corner from the Palais des Champs-Élysées (where it was held) to see scenes like this for real. Posters again refer ironically to festivals, and deliver information about traffic management in Paris.

Jean-François Raffaëlli’s Guests Waiting for the Wedding, from before 1884, are stood outside a wedding room that has, like them, seen better days. Behind them are official notices concerning dogs, an appeal for military reservists, and other local matters.

Évariste Carpentier’s The Foreigners from 1887 shows the arrival of outsiders in a close-knit community. At the right, sat at a table under the window, a mother and daughter dressed in black indicating recent bereavement are the foreigners looking for hospitality. Instead, everyone in the room, and many of those in the crowded bar behind, stares at them as if they have just arrived from Mars. At the left edge are two posters apparently promoting local events, to which these foreigners presumably aren’t invited.

By the early twentieth century posters had grown into large hoardings shown in Paul Hoeniger’s view of Berlin’s Spittelmarkt from 1912. With the advent of motor vehicles came the visual excesses of the advertising industry that still wants to own everything we see today.