Sarah Hall - How to Paint a Dead Man

You, therefore, who with lofty spirit are fired with this ambition, and are about to enter the profession, begin by decking yourself with this attire: Enthusiasm, Reverence, Obedience and Constancy. And begin to submit yourself to the direction of a master for instruction as early as you can; and do not leave the master until you have to.

For three years I studied in the red city. It was a different age of learning then. The gates of Accademia di belle Arti were decorative iron. But as immovable as this firmament were the teachings within the establishment. All affiliation and experimentation with the modern was quickly denounced. In my youth, I burned pictures related to Braque and the fragmentalists. The scholars at the Academy would tolerate no such curiosity or experimentation — they believed in paralysis and perfection. All attempts at the primitivist styles were accused of impatriotism and, if found guilty, we were made to study the great pieces again, and in some cases retake corso comune as humiliation. These teachers could, with one stroke, intervene and impose upon any painting that offended them. I have never felt such frustration as when watching a canvas dividing its wooden brace as the flames consume it. I have never once touched a brush to the paintings of my students.

In these times, poetry was the only salvation, and we were, all of us, poets and hungry for what the true poets were saying. It was they who collated our passion and our insult. It was they who reminded us to breathe when we held our breath, and taught us courage.

I have prepared a canvas for the new painting but I have altered the position of the bottles again-something was not quite right. I have written to inform Antonio. Each time I begin a painting I think I know everything, I believe myself fully equipped to work, but in truth I am starting with nothing and I know nothing. It can be a desolate thing. I am unable to convince myself of success. When I turn to look in the studio mirror I see a man of superficial health who reads poetry to his housekeeper instead of going to the hospital. I watch him. His hair is shockingly white. He smokes until the cigarette scalds his fingers. He smokes another. He waits for something-a bird, perhaps-to flit across the window, or for an announcement from the wind at the door of the house. He waits for permission from the objects on the table. He considers the spaces between. He rearranges by a fraction.

Peter must visit the National Gallery in London. He must see the glazed earthenware and the pewter, the wet fish-scales and gold-ringed eyes in the marine studies of Velázquez. He must see the liquid pooled in the sockets. He must see these paintings and not try to interpret utensils or religion or any such thing, nor should he try to unravel the symbolism of Vanitas or the elegant paradox of each title. Peter must feel the temperature of the bream, the death-shroud of seas over it, and the crackling of garlic skin as it is peeled. He must hear the sound of grinding in the kitchen mortar. And he must see the dragonfly of van Os — arrested — its transparent wings, its essence of flight. In America he must see Cotán’s quince and cabbage, suspended, tied delicately with string. The melon’s seeds slipping from the orange flesh.

I would present him with the timeless gifts of the nature morte. Still-life with citrons and walnuts. Still-life with lobster, the serration of claws. Still-life with parrot, and fruits out of season. Still-life with cloves, chilli, eggs, hare, dead birds, dewdrops, and rose. With asparagus, coins, straw skull, wicker, terracotta vase. Still-life with drinking horn.

Only then will he begin to understand living art.

The temperature is dropping, and the night is beginning to get uncomfortable. After all, he has on only the flowery cotton undershirt and the overalls, and wasn’t expecting to have to use a coat — typical northerner, coming out unprepared. The chill breath in the gorge circles his shoulders, stealing the heat from his body. There is less pain in his leg now though, or perhaps he is getting used to it. For an hour he has been fighting the cold, blowing into his cupped hands, flapping his arms and going nowhere, like a clipped bird. He has been throwing punches out into the darkness, boxing to keep his blood warm. A song is lodged in his head, something the kids have been listening to over and over on the stereo — some Manchester band, something about wanting to be a dog. Not a bad tune compared to the other crap on the radio these days. For some reason it’s stuck on repeat, is going round and round, and he’s been humming it, nodding his head to its melody. It’s keeping his spirits up at least, giving him something to think about. He’s even caught himself laughing a few times at the idiocy of his predicament, and that’s made him feel better too.

It’s apparent tonight that this is the changeover season. He can feel summer’s end. There’s the memory of frost down in the earth’s membranes. The northern rivers are carrying a message to the Solway that winter is coming. It’s nippiest on his arse, where he’s leaning against the stone. Things are getting particularly numb down there. The rocks seem to have their own gelid circulation; they seem reptilian that way. But that’s rocks for you, Peter — creatures with a system all their own. Hasn’t he said it many times, in interviews, and to visiting collectors? ‘The rocks, the rocks are alive…’

Hoist by your own petard, daft bugger. The irony is not lost on him. To have wound up here, stuck fast in this landscape, pincered between two apparently sentient, apparently wilful obelisks. To have been caught out by this densest of environments, which he has spent a lifetime rendering. Yes. It’s just perfect. And if he doesn’t get out of here, if he gets hypothermia, starves, dehydrates, and carks it; if the rooks start pecking out his eyes and have away with his nose; if no one in fact finds him down in this semi-remote gulley for years, until he resembles an odd, upright bouquet of bones, they will all say it: what an ironic way to go. How fitting. How right, how totally bloody meaningful!

He is not going to get hypothermia. This isn’t Everest. He is not icebound. Yes, he is thirsty. Yes, the injury is probably not very pretty; it may even be severe — a bloody bundle of skin and splinters down there, impacted, mashed, beyond repair. But this is a minor inconvenience in the scheme of all mountain disasters. Unlikely it will become legend. Unlikely he will have to eat himself to survive. It probably won’t make it past Border News. Yeah. He can see the smirking presenter now, turning the page for this last somewhat entertaining item. ‘Yesterday a local artist discovered there’s more to his landscapes than meets the eye.’ Oh Christ! How will he live it down? Maybe he can keep it quiet. If the Mountain Rescue aren’t involved. If there’s no filmed helicopter drama, no Ian Lumb or Adrian Bodger being winched down in a fluorescent helmet. ‘Oh, it’s you, Peter. How’re you doing, lad?’

I wanna, I wanna, I wanna be a dog.

On the other hand, if he’s honest, Mountain Rescue would be welcome right about now. His position is, in actual fact, intractable. It is fairly bloody miserable. And the leg is really sore. It isn’t the wild, contractive pain of a few hours ago; now it’s levelled off, and is just very tender. But a needle full of anaesthetic would be really good. And maybe this won’t hurt his profile at all. He could give an exclusive account to one of the art supplements. The mountain versus me! Maybe it’ll give him some kudos, it’ll be something to rival the urban set, always banging on about how dangerous and radical and cutting-edge they are.