I am not sure what prompted me to enroll in my first painting course at university but it was a decision that has stuck with me ever since. During my college years, it became part of a daily ritual - making my way to the art studio after lectures had finished for the day to find solace with my easel and palette. My mother's attic is filled with canvas after canvas from those years at school, but there is one painting that isn't collecting dust with all the others.
In my third year of studies, the focus was on the human form. Sometimes we worked with live models in class, other times we copied the work of well-known artists, learning to appreciate their work all the more as we tried to mimic their masterpieces. Each week, we gathered for a critique by our professor and fellow students. I hated these sessions. Criticism is not something I take well, as much as know I should try to to take it on board and learn from it. And so I sat on a February afternoon as we worked our way through the various paintings gathered before us. I'll never forget the comment that was made when the eyes settled on my painting, a copy of a portrait by John Singer Sargent.
I had mastered the folds of fabric of the Capri Girl's cloak and her posture was very much the same. But there was something about the face that wasn't quite right. Sargent's subject was earthy and haunting. She looked distant as if she was nervous. But my version was different. Her face was warmer - cheeks softly blushing with full pink lips. By adding colour where Sargent had not, I changed the mood of the painting entirely. It was not the same.
"She's too pretty!" blurted out one of my classmates. And the rest of the group echoed with laughter.
She was right and in a strange way I was pleased with my error. But my professor was not. The next day he arrived in class with a book. Handing it to me, he said with a smile, "You can't make these pretty. Pick one and paint it."
I groaned. Leafing through the book's pages, there was nothing aesthetically pleasing about these paintings. This artist had no intention of painting to make ladies look pretty and men look dignified, most of the subjects were nude, with every muscle, every bruise, every roll of fat openly on display.
But I am not one to argue much so I picked a portrait of a woman resting on a sofa and began to sketch out the form on the canvas in front of me. Over the weeks that followed the painting evolved in a quiet corner of the studio. I didn't say much to anyone but simply got on with my work. I felt like I was being punished for being a naughty child and hoped that if I could finish this horrible painting quickly, then I could return to the land of the pretty.
But Lucian Freud never painted anything quickly. And to copy his work requires the same meticulous dedication to detail for which he has often been revered. It took months to finish the painting. But even now, when I look at it, I know I could do more. Lucian painted every hair on the woman's head whilst I lazily used a broad brush stroke, too tired to truly follow the master.
The painting took me ages and when I finally faced my peers in the weekly critique, I didn't really care what they thought. The comments varied, but not one person could say that I was guilty of prettying the painting. After the review had finished, my professor snatched it from the easel and said he had a place for it. He didn't say where he was going or what he was going to do, but his smile told me that it was a good thing. A few days later, it was hung in the main hall of the University Centre and it stayed there until I graduated. It's been with me ever since.
I am still not sure how I feel about that painting. Sometimes I laugh at my classmate's observations that I could do plastic surgery to any subject, other times I wonder if I could ever paint like that again. And then I think of how much life has changed in the twenty years since I painted that painting. This last bit has been on my mind a lot lately.
A few months ago I stood before the original painting by Lucian Freud. I had never seen the real thing and the moment I caught sight of it, my heart jumped with excitement. It was far more incredible than anything I could ever paint. But as happy as I was to see it, there was a sadness too. I was standing there alone - not an uncommon state for me. As couples whispered to each other a friends commented about the various works in the gallery, I was very much aware that I had no one to share the experience with me. Weeks earlier when I bought the ticket, I had asked my husband if he would want to see it too but he had no interest in standing around a crowded museum looking at paintings. It's just not his thing.
When I wrote My Husband and I four years ago, I painted a picture of a marriage that was essentially good but with the odd bit missing here and there. It took a lonely afternoon with a painting for me to realise that there is a lot more missing and that maybe I need to stop trying to make things pretty.
Maybe it is time for a change.
Cate xxx
1 comment:
Oh sweetie I've been there.
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