Artist, writer, translator and designer Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882) was one of the major painters and poets of the Victorian era. Paradoxically, Rossetti's reputation in the history of art has been hindered, rather than helped, by his massive popularity with the global public. The mental acrobatics tend to take a familiar form: 'If his paintings are so effortlessly consumed by the worldwide public,' so the thinking goes, 'it is a lack of sophistication and complexity that makes them so easily understandable and accessible.'

Rossetti's public image is mostly derived from his oil paintings of women from the 1860s and 1870s. Due to the ubiquity of reproductions, from tote bags to book covers, they feel incredibly familiar – it can feel like we know them. But it is the very act of looking again (and again and again) slowly, carefully and closely that can throw a work like this into relief.

Close looking helps us to detach ourselves from the seductive power of what we think we already know and help us find what Elaine Showalter calls 'a form of defamiliarisation' that allows us to break through – and break down – 'habitual and casual' viewing practices. A work like Rossetti's La ghirlandata (1873), which can feel so familiar, can be unsettled and transformed by slow deliberation and gentle attention.

At first glance, the central figure in La ghirlandata appears as another of Rossetti's ethereal women: beautiful, serene, and somewhat melancholic. Her auburn hair flows around her shoulders, and her delicate fingers pluck at a harp. The lack of traditional perspective, with the figure and foliage dominating the space, creates a sense of immediacy, enhanced by the presence of angels peeking through.

But this figure resists easy interpretation. What emotion does she convey? Is it sadness, longing, or something else entirely? The more we look, the more elusive she becomes, inviting us into her inner world – a world of suggestion.

The interplay of natural and man-made elements in the painting reveals much about Rossetti's approach to harmony. Rossetti referred to La ghirlandata as 'the greenest picture in the World I believe – the principal figure being dressed in green and completely surrounded with glowing green foliage.'

But that description masks the deft moves Rossetti makes to bring this sense of togetherness: painterly gestures that reveal themselves on close inspection. The way the light illuminates the foliage to the left of the figure, but not on the right, introduces a genuine difference to the foliage: it is not uniform or homogeneous. Close inspection reveals a range of flora as Rossetti captures different details and shades within the overwhelming greenness.

Almost all the lush green foliage is different to the vibrant green of the woman's dress. That difference places the figure both within the natural world, via the harmonious colour, and outside of it, due to it being an artificial, thick and elaborately multilayered costume.

The relationship between the figure and the natural world is aptly explored via a small visual detail: note the way curves of the ivy in the lower-right corner mirror the curves of her sleeve, suggesting a deep attunement between the figure and her surroundings. This delicate balance between the natural and the artificial runs throughout the painting, blurring the kind of distinctions that might otherwise undermine the overarching harmony.

Look closely at the golden details of the brocade near her cuff and the bracelet in the lower left of the picture. The latter is either ever so slightly unlatched or, even when the accessory is functionally on the figure, at risk of coming off with the slightest of movements. There is a subtle tension here: the bracelet is functional yet precariously open. It hints not simply at desire and the availability of the body, suggesting that accessories and clothes might well come off, but also underscores the fragility and precarity of the scene.

The painting offers us a pregnant, contemplative moment that might pass into nothingness at any second, never to be reconstructed. It is a small detail, easily overlooked, but it adds a layer of complexity to the image of the woman, who is not simply a passive object, but a figure imbued with both agency and quiet sensuality.

The harp she plays is more than just an instrument: it is a bridge between the profane and sacred worlds. The double-winged design of the harp echoes the wings of angels, blurring the lines between the material and the supernatural. Why choose to represent the unrepresentable – the sound of music – in the silent, still, spatial art of painting? Rossetti, in representing something unavailable to us, underscores the relationship between the woman and the angels and the source of their transfixation.

A secondary question comes to the fore: if the music is so compelling that it can capture the attention of angels, are we, the viewer, even capable of imagining something that striking? What we are moved to experience, via the questions close looking raises, is the tension between what is seen and what can only be felt or imagined.

The play of gazes within the painting invites us into a complex visual interaction. The woman gazes out, her eyes meeting ours, but where do we stand in relation to her? The angels, meanwhile, offer two differing responses to the music. The angel on the right is intensely focused, its gaze fixed on the harp, while the one on the left is lost in the music, its hand dangling loosely, its eyes unfocused and directed past us into the distance.

The former is obsessed with the act of representation and music-making and the latter is captured by the aesthetic experience of that music. This contrast draws us into the scene, prompting us to consider our own engagement with the painting. Are we, like the right-hand angel, concentrating on the details, or are we, like the left, allowing ourselves to be carried away by the overall effect?

The setting of the painting feels both intimate and enclosed, with the foliage compressing the space, creating a sense of a private, almost secret world. The only hint of the world beyond comes from the small patch of sky visible through the leaves – a glimmer that suggests something outside this enclave. But can we leave this scene? Is the sky a hint of where we've come from or where we're going, or is it a deliberate and illusory choice, reinforcing the idea that we are as much a part of this world as the figure herself?

Despite everything that close looking offers us, it provokes more questions than answers.

Shifting our gaze back to the figure does not entirely dislodge the sky from our thinking. The blue of the woman's eyes connects more with the hint of sky than with the green surroundings, while the blue flowers scattered among the foliage add to this sense of connection and counterpoint. The red of her abundant hair, too, finds some affinity with the pink garlands.

All of this contrasts the paleness of her exposed skin and we find ourselves asking where, if at all, the barrier between natural beauty and cultivated aesthetics might be. Note the garlands on the harp: despite the title (it means 'the garlanded women' in English), it is the man-made instrument that is decorated by nature.

This is what close looking offers us: a way to connect with art that goes beyond the superficial, to discover the richness that exists in works we might otherwise take for granted. In doing so, we not only deepen our appreciation of Rossetti's skill but also cultivate a more thoughtful and enriched approach to the visual world around us. Through the act of close looking, we begin to see the visual world as it really is.

Nicholas Dunn-McAfee, art historian and literary critic

Further reading

Elaine Showalter, Teaching Literature, Blackwell, 2003