Iain Pears - The Portrait

Yes it could. You were prepared to use the body of a three-year-old boy to protect yourself. It was an instinctive response, a tunnel which suddenly opened up, allowing a little light to fall onto your soul. An incident of perhaps one part of a second, maybe less, before the tunnel closed once more. A laugh, a jocular remark, a good-natured reassurance that the boy was not to mind; it was only a glass. Tousled his hair. The servants called in to sweep up the mess. Another glass brought; the child sent out to play in the garden once he had been checked to make sure no sharp fragments had lodged in his clothes.

It doesn’t make any difference. Or does it? Why do I feel that half a second cannot be erased by hours, days, years of different behaviour? Why is it that half a second gives the lie to a reputation for fearless courage and audacity, built up over so many years? Because it is the truth, and because the child knows it too. It is his inheritance from you, that moment. Whatever is beyond your control frightens you; that is why you must control everything and everyone. That’s why I should have painted you outside. Above all here, where there is nothing but nature, and when the storms come, they are violent beyond your imagining. Not the storms of paintings, not the colourful storms of Turner, or the well-behaved and disciplined storms of someone like Vanderwelde; not something that can be neutered by three-quarters of an inch of frame. Not beautiful, either; that is a misconception. Real storms are ugly and brutal; there is little pleasing aesthetically in them; their appeal goes much deeper.

We are coming into the storm season. Shortly, perhaps even tomorrow, we will go for a walk, you and I, along the cliffs. Don’t look so worried; we will wrap up well, and face your fears together, stand in the howling gale and shout our defiance at all the uncontrollable forces in the world. You must not turn me down, you will never have the opportunity again; it is a once in a lifetime offer that I am making. It will be worth it.

Shortly after I arrived here, you see, I was down at Madame Le Gurun’s by the port during one of those storms. I had walked down there to see if there was any bread, but didn’t realise quite how quickly the weather can deteriorate, nor how long the storms can go on. So I thought that I would have a drink and sit it out for an hour or so. It made me feel quite foolish; the storm eventually blew itself out after three and a half days. I stayed only for three hours before boredom drove me out into the worst of the rain, to walk home. How I made it I don’t know, because it was pitch black and the wind was too strong for any lantern.

I got lost, and wandered too near the cliff face. Not much of a cliff, as you will see. Quite a gentle, low thing; you can scramble down to the beach in good weather, when the tide is out, and arrive scarcely even breathless. At night, in a storm, when the tide is pounding waves against the rocks, it is another matter entirely. One slip and you’d be gone; I nearly went. I was more petrified than I had ever been before in my life, and when I got home, the fire was out and a window had blown in; my papers were soaking and all over the place. A few hours of weather had reduced my life to ruins and had cut me down to a shivering, whimpering carcase. I needed a fire, urgently. And I needed to block the window. I used sketch pads for one, and a canvas I’d been working on for the other. My art saved me; the first time, to be frank, it had ever been of any use at all. I recommend both, by the way; sketch pads are good quality paper and burn well; canvas thickly covered in oil paint is a perfect way of keeping out the rain.

I ramble; my point was that while I was in the bar, a fishing boat came in, and the crew tumbled in for hot brandy to revive themselves. They were exhausted, exhilarated. The wildness of the storm had communicated itself to them. Their eyes burned, and their faces had been lashed by the rain into beauty. Even their movements had an extraordinary elegance; after fighting against the sea for many hours, moving across a room, lifting a glass, talking in a normal voice was absurdly easy. There was a life in them that burned all the more brightly because it had come close to being snuffed out altogether. And their women responded to it as well; even the most shrewish of them gathered round with renewed interest, touching them and showing in countless little ways that they were aroused by the danger. I bet that, even though some of the men were so tired they could barely stand, that many a baby was conceived that night. Storm babies, they are called.

Good life; bad art. I studied them carefully as they sat there, talking so quietly and with such animation. The high-flushed colouring of their cheeks, the animation of their eyes, their movements alternating between quickness and langour—but the langour of exhaustion, not the drawing room variety of the bored. Such ugly pictures they would have made. Those excessive colours, those poses which would be so absurd once the movement was taken out of them. You could produce a fine picture, but it would have been such a poor reflection of the reality it would scarcely be worthwhile.

How to put into paint the steam rising from their clothes, the palpable mixture of excitement and relief, the fear and the exhaustion? Not the physical tiredness; that is fairly straightforward, though still hard to do. I mean the spiritual exhaustion of someone who has faced death and been reprieved. Someone who has to confront the fact that being alive is the thoughtless gift of the unknowing, uncaring sea. Or of God, if you prefer it, as they probably do. It cannot be done, because paintings exist only in the beholder’s mind, and few people have any understanding of such violence. Such a picture would register only within the limited repertoire of the gallery viewer. They would see the squalor of the bar, the filth of the clothes, the unshaven tiredness of the men. And would put it in the tradition of genre pictures, stretching back to the Dutch, or liken it to one of those sentimental confections of the Victorians, The Sailors’ Rest, or some such.

And yes, I did paint it, because I was ashamed that I was still reluctant to take a chance. I worked for weeks on it, and I am proud of the result. It is the finest thing I have ever done, for I nearly fell off the cliff that night, and I had some glimpse of what true terror, and true relief, is like. I captured it in my painting.

Here it is; underneath this old pile of canvas. I won’t ask you what you think; I don’t care, anyway. Yes, I know; it is small, compact. Focussing entirely on two of the men, and one of the women. You see how they are huddled; the slope of their shoulders turning in on themselves? It is the colouring I am proud of most; bright blues and greens; none of the dark interior browns I would have used in the past. I have painted heroes, the equal of the Greek myths, men who have battled the gods and survived. Not the downtrodden and oppressed poor, not people you are meant to feel sorry for. You don’t see it, I am sure. I can tell by your eyes. But you have never felt fear; the nearest you have come was a few fragments of glass scudding towards you across a mahogany table. You have missed something important in your life; perhaps we might rectify it before you leave. As I say, I intend to show you a storm, and there will be one before tomorrow is out.

YOU MUST ADMIT I was right about the weather. Clear blue sky one day, and the next day—this; all the more impressive for being so immediate. It’s cosy enough in here at the moment, mind; you will not shiver while you are with me. We will sit here in the warmth for all the world as if nothing is going on outside at all. Don’t you find the noise of the wind enthralling? It sounds sometimes as though the whole house is going to be ripped off its foundations and blown out to sea. You can feel the walls shake, and the screaming of the wind outside is sometimes deafening. You wait; we’re a long way from the peak yet.