Flaming June

Flaming June by Sir Frederic Leighton

Flaming June is a painting by Sir Frederic Leighton, produced in 1895. Painted with oil paints on a 47-by-47-inch (1,200 mm × 1,200 mm) square canvas, it depicts a sleeping woman in a sensuous version of his classicist Academic style. It is Leighton's most recognisable work, and is much reproduced in posters and other media. Flaming June disappeared from view in the 1930s and was rediscovered in the 1960s. It is currently on loan to the Royal Academy of Arts in London, where it is to be on display from 17 February 2024 until 12 January 2025.

From the moment Flaming June first arrived at the Royal Academy, I found myself drawn to it, compelled to see for myself what all the commotion was about. A quick disclaimer: I am by no means an art connoisseur—in fact, some of my friends might argue I’m a fool in most things. But what I bring to this painting is the eye of the novice, not burdened by the technicalities, but instead swept away by raw emotion and impression. 

As you enter the room and turn your gaze towards the painting, what strikes you immediately is the orange. It’s not just a colour; it’s an assault on the senses. The Grecian gown draped across the sleeping figure dominates the canvas, so translucent it almost breathes with life, as though the fabric itself is pulsing with energy. There’s a strange tension here—on the one hand, the woman is in the deep calm of sleep, yet the orange is alive, almost too alive, vibrant and restless in the way it folds over her. It demands attention. One can almost taste the colour, as it drapes and spills across her form like a liquid fire, mesmerizing you as it clings to her curves in a serpentine dance.

As I stand there, locked in this hypnotic haze, I can’t help but return to the woman herself—Leighton’s model. She rests in a slumber so deep it seems to transcend time. Her limbs are folded with a natural ease, as if she might stir at any moment, adjust her position, and slip further into the dream. The rise and fall of her chest feels almost palpable. You expect to hear her soft breathing, to see her body shift, as though her anatomy is too lifelike to be confined to paint and canvas. And yet, she remains motionless.

But then, an unease creeps in. There’s something unsettling about her posture, the way she curls into the couch—not quite at home, not quite comfortable. It’s as if she didn’t intend to fall asleep here, almost as if this sleep was forced upon her. You imagine a faint mechanical sound disturbing her peace, pulling her back to the burdensome reality from which she seems to have escaped. You glance behind her—there’s the sea, gleaming with a molten gold, the sun melting into the horizon, as if to lure her into a dream of endless serenity. Or perhaps she’s dreaming of the distant island, untouched and unexplored, far from the chaos of civilization. This is her escape, and you pray no sound will wake her.

And then, in the corner of the frame, you see it—the oleander. A flower, yes, but a toxic one. A beautiful symbol of death. The unease that lingered now morphs into a quiet dread. The woman isn’t just sleeping; she’s teetering between life and death. There is no waking her. The orange fabric that seemed so alive, so vibrant, is not just draped over her—it’s consuming her. It’s no longer merely a part of the painting’s composition; it’s the true subject. The orange is the force that holds her in its grasp, collaborating with the oleander to pull her into an eternal slumber, one that cannot be disturbed.

And just like that, the painting reveals itself. As you walk away, you hope, despite everything, that her rest is peaceful.