St. Paul's Cathedral: A Guide to Its Stunning Artworks in London

When you walk through the narrow streets of the City of London, past the glass towers of modern finance and the old stone pubs that still serve bitter ale, one structure rises above it all - St. Paul’s Cathedral. It’s not just a church. It’s a monument that’s watched over London through plague, fire, war, and renewal. And if you’ve ever stood beneath its dome, tilted your head back, and stared up at the painted ceiling, you know why it’s one of the most powerful artworks in the city.

The Dome That Defines London’s Skyline

Christopher Wren didn’t just build a cathedral - he engineered a symbol. The dome, completed in 1710, is the second-largest in the world after St. Peter’s in Rome. But unlike its Italian cousin, St. Paul’s was built for London’s weather, its people, and its history. The triple-layered design - outer dome, inner dome, and the hidden brick cone in between - keeps the structure stable through wind and rain, something every Londoner knows about by November.

Look up. The inner dome is covered in a fresco by James Thornhill: The History of St. Paul. It’s not just decoration. It’s a narrative of faith, sacrifice, and divine intervention, painted in the grand Baroque style that dominated early 18th-century Britain. The figures stretch upward in swirling motion, drawing your eyes toward the lantern at the top. The gold leaf? Real. Applied by hand. And it still catches the afternoon sun through the clerestory windows, making the whole space glow like a candle in a winter fog.

The Whispering Gallery: Where London Whispers Back

Take the 257 steps - yes, it’s a workout - up to the Whispering Gallery. It’s a circular walkway just below the inner dome, and it’s famous for a trick: if you stand against the wall and whisper, someone 32 metres away can hear you clearly. Locals bring their kids here after school. Tourists try it with their partners. Businesspeople from Canary Wharf sneak up during lunch to test it out - it’s become a quiet ritual in a noisy city.

The gallery’s brickwork is original. No modern repairs. You can see the mortar joints, the tool marks from the 1700s, the slight unevenness where a stonemason’s chisel slipped. It’s not perfect. And that’s why it’s real. This isn’t a museum exhibit. It’s a living space where centuries of Londoners have walked, whispered, and wondered.

The Stone and Gold of the Crypt

Down in the crypt, beneath the cathedral’s foundation, lies a quiet hall of remembrance. It’s not as flashy as the dome, but it’s where London’s soul rests. Here, you’ll find the tombs of Nelson, Wellington, and Wren himself. Nelson’s sarcophagus? Originally meant for Cardinal Wolsey. It was repurposed after his death at Trafalgar - a symbol of how London turns history into legend.

The walls are lined with marble plaques and bronze busts. One, of Sir John Soane, the architect of the Bank of England, shows him holding a scale - a quiet nod to how London’s greatest builders were also artists. The floor tiles? Hand-cut Caen stone, imported from Normandy in the 1600s. You can still see the wear from boots of soldiers who marched here after D-Day, and the faint scuff marks from Queen Elizabeth II’s shoes during her 2011 visit.

The Mosaic of the Apse: When Art Meets Devotion

Behind the high altar, the apse is covered in a mosaic that took 15 years to complete. It’s called The Triumph of the Church, and it was created by William Blake Richmond in the late 1800s. Unlike the frescoes above, this is made of tiny glass tesserae - over a million of them. The gold background? Real 24-carat gold leaf. It was commissioned after the cathedral’s 1890s restoration, when London was rebuilding its identity after industrialization.

Look closely. The figures aren’t biblical angels. They’re modeled after real people: choirboys from St. Paul’s School, nuns from the nearby convent, even a local baker who donated his time. Richmond wanted the sacred to feel human. And in a city where faith is quieter now than in Wren’s day, that humanity still connects.

The War Damage and the White Rose

During the Blitz, St. Paul’s was bombed 14 times. The cathedral survived - not by luck, but because Londoners formed human chains to put out fires with buckets of water. One of the most haunting artworks here is the stained-glass window in the north transept, created in 1948. It’s called The White Rose Window, and it was made from shards of glass salvaged from destroyed churches across the city.

Each piece of glass tells a story. A fragment from Coventry Cathedral. A sliver from St. Mary-le-Bow. A bit from a church in Stepney that vanished in 1941. The window doesn’t show saints or angels. It shows light - broken, scattered, but still shining. It’s the most honest piece of art in the cathedral. And if you visit on Remembrance Sunday, you’ll see Londoners lay poppies at its base.

How to Visit Like a Local

If you’re coming from King’s Cross, take the Northern Line to Bank. Walk past the Gherkin, turn left on Paternoster Row, and you’ll see the cathedral before you. Avoid the queues at the main entrance - go through the north porch instead. Locals know the ticket line there is half as long.

Bring a jacket. Even in summer, the crypt is cold. The cathedral is unheated, and the wind sweeps through the nave like it’s still 1710. Grab a coffee from St. Paul’s Coffee House just outside - it’s run by a family from Peckham and serves proper flat whites, not overpriced lattes.

Visit on a weekday. Weekends are packed with tour groups from Brighton and Birmingham. On Tuesdays, the choir sings Evensong at 5:30 PM. No ticket needed. Just slip in, find a pew, and let the acoustics do the rest. The organ, built by Henry Willis in 1897, still has pipes that date back to 1694. It’s the oldest working organ in London.

Why This Matters in Today’s London

St. Paul’s isn’t just a tourist spot. It’s where London remembers itself. It’s where the Queen’s coronation procession ended. Where Prince Charles and Lady Diana were married. Where the nation gathered after 9/11 and again after the 7/7 bombings. The artworks here aren’t just beautiful - they’re anchors.

In a city that changes every five years - where a new skyscraper rises where a pub used to be, where the Tube map gets redrawn, where the market on Borough High Street now sells plant-based sausages - St. Paul’s remains. Its dome still silhouettes against the skyline. Its whispers still echo. And its art still asks the same question: What do we choose to remember?