Personal Blogs

According to John Singer Sargent, "A portrait is a painting with something wrong with the mouth". I know precisely what he means. Over the recent Christmas break I decided that I'd make an effort to get back to painting again. It came as a shock to realise that I hadn't painted at all in more than twelve years - how did that happen? - and I've recently begun to feel quite keenly the loss of not painting anymore.

Determined to strike while the iron is hot, I popped down the artshop to buy a few essentials and returned to my study full of vim and an eagerness to simply get stuck in. In the times when I did used to paint and draw regularly it was largely figurative work that I enjoyed most so I decided that I'd have a go at a self-portrait - primarily for the simple pragmatic reason that no-one else (understandably) would be prepared to sit around doing nothing for hours on end while I dragged the long-neglected and rusty painting skills out into the light of day to probably-horrific effect.

And so it was for the next couple of hours that I sat, undaunted, glaring balefully into the mirror, brush in hand clumsily gobbing blobs of colour on the formally pristine surface as I wrestled to conjure up a likeness. A couple of hours later I conceded defeat. The results were manifestly less than impressive and any possibility that the resulting image might actually bear any resemblence to my own careworn fissog was a notion that even the kindest of readings could only truthfully declare to be somewhat misguided. A more realistic and honest appraisal would assert that the face staring back out from the picture surface was that of someone who'd recently experienced some horrific disfigurement involving either a chemical fire or a lawnmower; possibly both. Yet, strange to say, despite this, I wasn't at all downhearted or frustrated. I'd expected things to be a bit ropey and sure enough they were, but what came out of the exercise was a tangible sense that it hadn't all gone, as I'd feared it might have in confirmation of the 'use it or lose it' aphorism. In amongst the carnage before me there were enough small signs to think that something of the old skill was still in there. Certainly enough to warrant having another go. So with that in mind, I cheerily ripped up the mess in front of me, cleaned up, awarded myself a beer and vowed to have another go the next day.

This time I approached things rather more carefully. I moved slowly. I spent a long time simply looking. I set out to gradually form the broad masses, the relationships between light and shadow, proportions and colour values. I painted slowly. Very, very slowly. Far slower than I ever had in my prime. And very, very gradually, a face began to emerge that I half recognised. Best of all, that wonderful sensation of becoming lost in a painting quietly began to envelope my conscious thoughts and it was only when I began to notice that my feet and legs were aching that I looked up to discover that six hours had somehow evaporated seemingly in minutes and that it had become dark outside. A little more of the painting magic had returned. I'd become hooked again. And so it was more of the same over the next two days; standing, looking painting, looking, another dab of colour, another accent and lots more looking. Some eighteen hours later I decided that I'd done as much as I could. The result isn't great; it's very tight; the sum of the parts doesn't quite add up to the whole and there isn't the freedom in the brushwork and the confidence of mark making that I used to be capable of. And yes, there's definitely something wrong with the mouth; but after twelve years of total abstinence it was far better than I was prepared to hope it would be.

One of my fondest hopes for 2012 is that I can reacquaint myself more fully with my long-lost dear old friend, the painter.