AND ANOTHER THING
You don't paint for the money: the joy is in the doing
PAUL JOHNSON
Next week my new exhibition of paint- ings opens. Any readers of this column who have quarrels with my views, or think I'm over the top (or the hill) have a matchless opportunity to buttonhole me, give me a piece of their mind or just tut-tut, by coming along to the Piers Feetham Gallery, 475 Ful- ham Road, London SW6, any time after 10 a.m. from Friday 5 to Saturday 27 June.
But please don't take it out on the paint- ings. They are harmless innocents, blameless products of my hand and eye, non-political, non-judgmental, not artless but certainly not artful either, entirely visual comments on landscapes and buildings and places. They grind no axes, roll no logs, plug no causes. They were done from love, for relaxation, to record delight, to remind, to register sensory impressions and insights, to witness. Behind them is no theory, no ideology, no world view. They are not designed to disturb, a word I find peculiarly repellent in an artistic context. Indeed, if they do not please they are nothing, fit only for the bonfire.
All my painting life I have been trying simply to set down on a two-dimensional piece of paper or canvas exactly what I see. I have no ambition to change the world through my brush. I simply want to get it right, as it is. And that is mighty difficult. For instance, I am showing a big view of St Peter's, Rome, done from one of the bridges across the Tiber, just before you get to Cas- tel S. Angelo. There was a stormy clement in the clouds, which seemed to make the great dome of the basilica embattled. I got that all right, and some pretty impressive reflections in the river. But a hateful yellowish building in the middle simply would not come good, as the Australians say. I painted and repaint- ed it half a dozen times. I prayed to St Luke, the patron saint of artists. I scrubbed it out, and started all over again. Turner said yel- low was his favourite colour. But for me it is always trouble. I am still not satisfied with that horrid edifice and, though small, it is the first thing to catch my eye whenever I look at the picture.
Then again, there are so many things I do not know, often elementary things, knowl- edge of which is essential to paint well. Often I discover these fundamentals only after years or even decades of vain strug- gling without them. For instance, I have never been able to paint portraits. I have tried hard to do so, from time to time, and then given up in weariness and failure. I had another try a year ago, with disastrous results, simply tiring and disappointing those who were good-natured enough to sit for me. I studied the work of Van Dyck and Rubens, Lawrence, Batoni, Gainsborough, Sargent — all the masters — until I was glassy-eyed, but to no avail. Some basic secret eluded me. I can do a building or a mountain with almost total accuracy, but a face eluded me altogether. Why?
At last I have discovered the reason. To paint a portrait I have always begun with the outline of the head and face, and then worked inwards. This seems to me, and has always seemed to me, the logical thing to do. But it is wrong — hopelessly wrong. I should have begun with the eyes, and worked out- wards.
Like all great tricks, once learned, it is obvious. It seems inconceivable that you did not spot it before. In fact I discovered it only recently, by reading the letters of Mary Cas- salt She was giving some advice to a child of ten, who wanted to try her hand at portraits, and she wrote, 'Don't be afraid — go ahead. But remember, always begin with the eyes.' Here, I thought, was a mere child, given the key to portraiture by a great mistress of the art, at the age of ten, while I had to wait until nearly 70 to learn this primary truth, without which you cannot even begin to get faces right.
But then came a consoling thought. At least I did stumble across Cassatt's letter, and did acquire this vital piece of knowl- edge, and now have the chance to get down to portrait-painting seriously. I might so eas- ily have gone to the tomb without being aware of this key fact, rather as that poor booby Lord North, who was blamed for the loss of the American colonies, went to his grave without ever realising he had presided over the take-off phase of the first industrial revolution in history.
Some of the art of painting can be taught by axiom. Turner was an incoherent man and his lectures to the students at the Royal Academy must have been hard to follow. On the other hand, he often came out with `There's a faint taste of sour grapes.' abrupt sayings that are true, and useful. Thus: 'Avoid green. Especially masses of green. Best avoid it altogether. I can't afford green.' (Or words to that effect — I am quoting from memory.) I see exactly what he meant. Green is the devil. No paint manu- facturer has yet produced a really good green of any shade. And Turner said: 'Never put anything important in the corners.' That is good advice too. He also said: 'Respect your paper. Treat it well.' I have learned from Turner always to get the best possible paper, and treat it, caress it, like the skin of a princess.
There is little money in painting, except for a tiny number of artists, most of them fashionable frauds. For a sincere and consci- entious artist to make a reasonable living today requires an enormous amount of hard work, and luck too. I have a generous gallery, which takes only 40 per cent and pays the VAT too, so its real rate is less than 25 per cent. Most galleries take 50 per cent and some in the West End 60 per cent. But then, who would paint just for the money? You paint for joy. There surely cannot be any greater pleasure in fife than to spot a fine subject in nature, get to grips with it instantly and, in due course, find you have actually got it down on paper, fresh and true and glittering. Of course I am talking about watercolour, where speed, dash and risk are everything, and one hour of your time will give you either triumph or total failure.
These beautiful May mornings I have been getting up at five, or even earlier, and taking my paints into Kensington Gardens as soon as it is open, sitting among the trees or by the Round Pond, and getting to work. No one about, except the squirrels and swans and a few joggers. The light scintillat- ing, almost surreal in its soft, clear efful- gence, creeping over the grass, seeking out the dark corners in the trees and suddenlY filling them with sunshine, sending long, deep shadows across the walks, shadows which are so satisfying to put in boldly in the final stages of a watercolour, bringing all things together, and giving vigorous depth and solidity to the flat surface. No one to stare at what you are doing, and ask idiotic questions: 'Is that a painting?' These are times when to have a certain skill, and practise it amid beauty of setting and in superb weather is, indeed, a privilege beyond price. So to exhibit one's work ts simply icing on a cake already deeplY enjoyed and digested.
Previous page
