The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘Well … landscape painting’s very solitary,’ I replied. ‘It’s just you and the view. But with portraits you’re with another human being and that’s what’s always fascinated me.’ Clare nodded and smiled for me to expand. ‘I feel excited when I look at a person for the very first time. When they sit in front of me I drink in everything I can about them. I study the colour and shape of their eyes, the line of their nose, the shade and texture of the skin, the outline of the mouth. I’m also registering how they are, physically.’

  ‘You mean their body language?’

  ‘Yes. I’m looking at the way they tilt their head, and the way they smile; whether they look me in the eye, or keep glancing away; I’m looking at the way they fold their arms or cross their legs, or if they don’t sit on the chair properly but perch forward on it or slouch down into it – because all that will tell me what I need to know about that person to be able to paint them truthfully.’

  ‘But—’ a motorbike was roaring down the street. Clare waited for the noise to fade. ‘What does “truthfully” mean – that the portrait looks like the person?’

  ‘It ought to look like them.’ I rubbed a smear of chrome green off the palm of my hand. ‘But a good portrait should also reveal aspects of the sitter’s character. It should capture both an outer and an inner likeness.’

  ‘You mean body and soul?’

  ‘Yes … It should show the person, body and soul.’

  Clare glanced at her notes again. ‘Do you work from photographs?’

  ‘No. I need to have the living person in front of me. I want to be able to look at them from every angle and to see the relationship between each part of their face. Above all, I need to see the way the light bounces off their features, because that’s what will give me the form and the proportions. Painting is all about seeing the light. So I work only from life, and I ask for six two-hour sittings.’

  Clare’s green eyes widened. ‘That’s a big commitment – for you both.’

  ‘It is. But then a portrait is a significant undertaking, in which the painter and sitter are working together – there’s a complicity.’

  She held the microphone a little closer. ‘And do your sitters open up to you?’ I didn’t reply. ‘I mean, there you are, on your own with them, for hours at a time. Do they confide in you?’

  ‘Well …’ I didn’t like to say that my sitters confide the most extraordinary things. ‘They do sometimes talk about their marriages or their relationships,’ I answered carefully. ‘They’ll even tell me about their tragedies, and their regrets. But I regard what happens during the sittings as not just confidential, but almost sacrosanct.’

  ‘It’s a bit like a confessional then?’ Clare suggested teasingly.

  ‘In a way it is. A portrait sitting is a very special space. It has an … intimacy: painting another human being is an act of intimacy.’

  ‘So … have you ever fallen in love with any of your sitters?’

  I smiled. ‘Well, I did once fall in love with a dachshund that someone wanted in the picture, but I’ve never fallen for a human sitter, no.’ I didn’t add that as most of my male subjects were married they were, in any case, offlimits. I thought of the mess that Chloë had got herself into …

  ‘Is there any kind of person you particularly enjoy painting?’ Clare asked.

  I was silent for a moment while I considered the question. ‘I suppose I’m drawn to people who are a little bit dark – who haven’t had happy-ever-after sort of lives. I like painting people who I feel are … complex.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘I … find it more interesting – to see that fight going on in the face between the conflicting parts of someone’s personality.’ I glanced at the clock. It was half past six. I had to go. ‘But … do you have enough material now?’

  Clare nodded. ‘Yes, plenty.’ She lifted off her headphones, then smoothed down her hair. ‘But could I have a quick look at your work?’

  ‘Sure.’ I suppressed a sigh. ‘I’ll get my portfolio.’

  As I fetched the heavy black folder from the other side of the studio, Clare walked over to my big studio easel and studied the canvas standing on it. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘That’s my mother.’ I heaved the portfolio on to the table then came and stood next to her. ‘She popped by this morning so I did a bit more. It’s for her sixtieth birthday later this year.’

  ‘She’s beautiful.’

  I looked at my mother’s round blue eyes with their large, exposed lids beneath perfectly arching eyebrows, at her sculpted cheekbones and her aquiline nose, and at her left hand resting elegantly against her breastbone. Her skin was lined, but time had otherwise been kind. ‘It’s almost finished.’

  Clare cocked her head to one side. ‘She has … poise.’

  ‘She was a ballet dancer.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I remember now, it said so in that article about you.’ She looked at me. ‘And was she successful?’

  ‘Yes – she was with the English National Ballet, then with the Northern Ballet Theatre in Manchester – this was in the seventies. That’s her, actually, on the wall, over there …’

  Clare followed my gaze to a framed poster of a ballerina in a full-length white tutu and bridal veil. ‘Giselle,’ Clare murmured. ‘How lovely … It’s such a touching story, isn’t it – innocence betrayed …’

  ‘It was my mother’s favourite role – that was in ‘79. Sadly, she had to retire just a few months later.’

  ‘Why?’ Clare asked. ‘Because of having children?’

  ‘No – I was nearly five by then. It was because she was injured.’

  ‘In rehearsal?’

  I shook my head. ‘At home. She fell, breaking her ankle.’

  Clare’s brow pleated in sympathy. ‘How terrible.’ She looked at the portrait again, as if seeking signs of that disappointment in my mother’s face.

  ‘It was hard …’ I had a sudden memory of my mother sitting at the kitchen table in our old flat, her head in her hands. She used to stay like that for a long time.

  ‘What did she do then?’ I heard Clare ask.

  ‘She decided that we’d move to London; once she’d recovered enough she began a new career as a ballet mistress.’ Clare looked at me enquiringly. ‘It’s something that older or injured dancers often do. They work with a company, refreshing the choreography or rehearsing particular roles: my mother did this with the Festival Ballet for some years, then with Ballet Rambert.’

  ‘Does she still do that?’

  ‘No – she’s more or less retired. She teaches one day a week at the English National Ballet school, otherwise she mostly does charity work; in fact she’s organised a big gala auction tonight for Save the Children, which is why I’m pushed for time as I have to be there but in here—’ I went over to the table and opened the folder – ‘are the photos of all my portraits. There are about fifty.’

  ‘So it’s your Facebook,’ Clare said with a smile. She sat on the sofa again and began to browse the images. ‘Fisherman …’ she murmured. ‘That one’s on your website, isn’t it? Ursula Sleeping … Emma, Polly’s Face …’ Clare gave me a puzzled look. ‘Why did you call this one Polly’s Face – given that it’s a portrait?’

  ‘Oh, because Polly’s my best friend – we’ve known each other since we were six; she’s a hand and foot model and was jokingly complaining that no one ever showed any interest in her face, so I said I’d paint it.’

  ‘Ah ….’

  I pointed to the next image. ‘That’s Baroness Hale – the first woman Law Lord; this is Sir Philip Watts, a former Chairman of Shell.’

  Clare turned the page again. ‘And there’s the Duchess of Cornwall. She looks rather humorous.’

  ‘She is, and that’s the quality I most wanted people to see.’

  ‘And did the Prince like it?’

  I gave a shrug. ‘He seemed to. He said nice things about it when he came to the unveiling
at the National Portrait Gallery last month.’

  Clare turned to the next photo. ‘And who’s this girl with the cropped hair?’

  ‘That’s my sister, Chloë. She works for an ethical PR agency called PRoud, so they handle anything to do with fair trade, green technology, organic food and farming – that kind of thing.’

  Clare nodded thoughtfully. ‘She’s very like your mother.’

  ‘She is – she has her fair complexion and ballerina physique.’ Whereas I am dark and sturdy, I reflected balefully – more Paula Rego than Degas.

  Clare peered at the painting. ‘But she looks so … sad – distressed, almost.’

  I hesitated. ‘She was breaking up with someone – it was a difficult time; but she’s fine now,’ I went on firmly. Even if her new boyfriend’s vile, I didn’t add.

  My phone was ringing. I answered it.

  ‘Where are you?’ Mum demanded softly. ‘It’s ten to seven – nearly everyone’s here.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, but I’m not quite finished.’ I glanced at Clare, who was still flicking through the portfolio.

  ‘You said you’d come early.’

  ‘I know – I’ll be there in twenty minutes, promise.’ I hung up. I looked at Clare. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now …’ I went to my work table and dipped some dirty brushes in the jar of turps.

  ‘Of course …’ she said, without looking up. ‘That’s the singer Cecilia Bartoli.’ She turned to the final image. ‘And who’s this friendly looking man with the bow tie?’

  I pulled the brushes through a sheet of newspaper to squeeze out the paint. ‘That’s my father.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Yes.’ I did my best to ignore the surprise in her voice. ‘Roy Graham. He’s an orthopaedic surgeon – semi-retired.’ I went to the sink, aware of Clare’s curious gaze on my back.

  ‘But in The Times—’

  ‘He plays a lot of golf …’ I rubbed washing-up liquid into the bristles. ‘At the Royal Mid-Surrey – it’s not far from where they live, in Richmond.’

  ‘In The Times it said that—’

  ‘He also plays bridge.’ I turned on the tap. ‘I’ve never played, but people say it’s fun once you get into it.’ I rinsed and dried the brushes, then laid them on my work table, ready for the next day. ‘Right …’ I looked at Clare, willing her to leave.

  She put the tape recorder and notes into her bag then stood up. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking you this,’ she said. ‘But as it was in the newspaper, I assume you talk about it.’

  My fingers trembled as I screwed the top back on a tube of titanium white. ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘Well … the article said that you were adopted when you were eight …’ Heat spilled into my face. ‘And that your name was changed—’

  ‘I don’t know where they got that.’ I untied my apron. ‘Now I really must—’

  ‘It said that your real father left when you were five.’

  By now my heart was battering against my ribcage. ‘My real father is Roy Graham,’ I said quietly. ‘And that’s all there is to it.’ I hung my apron on its hook. ‘But thank you for coming.’ I opened the studio door. ‘If you could let yourself out …’

  Clare gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Of course.’

  As soon as she’d gone, I furiously rubbed at my paint-stained fingers with a turps-soaked rag then quickly washed my face and tidied my hair. I put on some black trousers and my green velvet coat and was about to go and unlock my bike when I remembered that the front light was broken. I groaned. I’d have to get the bus, or a cab – whichever turned up first. At least Chelsea Old Town Hall wasn’t far.

  I ran up to the King’s Road and got to the stop just as a number 11 was pulling up, its windows blocks of yellow in the gathering dusk.

  As we trundled over the bridge I reflected bitterly on Clare’s intrusiveness, yet she’d only repeated what she’d read in The Times. I felt a burst of renewed fury that something so intensely private was now online …

  ‘Would you please take that paragraph out,’ I’d asked the reporter, Hamish Watt, when I’d tracked him down an hour or so after I’d first seen the article. As I’d gripped the phone my knuckles were white. ‘I was horrified when I saw it – please remove it.’

  ‘No,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s part of the story.’

  ‘But you didn’t ask me about it,’ I’d protested. ‘When you interviewed me at the National Portrait Gallery last week you talked only about my work.’

  ‘Yes – but I already had some background about you – that your mother had been a dancer, for example. I also happened to know a bit about your family circumstances.’

  ‘How?’

  There was a momentary hesitation. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he answered, as though that were sufficient explanation.

  ‘Please cut that bit out,’ I’d implored him again.

  ‘I can’t,’ he’d insisted. ‘And you were perfectly happy to be interviewed, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed weakly. ‘But if I’d known what you were going to write I’d have refused. You said that the article would be about my painting, but a good third of it was very personal and I’m uncomfortable about that.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you’re unhappy,’ he’d said unctuously. ‘But as publicity is undoubtedly helpful to artists, I suggest you learn to take the rough with the smooth.’ With that, he’d hung up …

  It would be on the Internet for ever, I now thought dismally – for anyone to see. Anyone at all … The thought of it made me feel sick. I’d simply have to find a way to deal with it, I reflected as we passed the World’s End pub.

  My father is Roy Graham.

  My father is Roy Graham and he’s a wonderful father.

  I’ve got a father, thank you. His name is Roy Graham …

  To distract myself I thought about work. I was starting a new portrait in the morning. Then on Thursday Mike Johns, MP, was coming for his fourth sitting – there’d been quite a gap since the last one as he said he’d been too busy; and yesterday I’d had that enquiry about painting a Mrs Carr – her daughter, Sophia, had contacted me through my website. Then there’d be the new commission from tonight – not that it was going to make me any money, I reflected regretfully as we passed Heal’s. I stood up and pressed the bell.

  I got off the bus, crossed the road and followed a knot of smartly dressed people up the steps of the town hall. I walked down the black-and-white tiled corridor, showed my invitation, then pushed on the doors of the main hall, next to which was a large sign: Save The Children – Gala Auction.

  The ornate blue-and-ochre room was already full, the stertorous chatter almost drowning out the string trio that was valiantly playing away on one side of the stage. Aproned waiters circulated with trays of canapés and drinks. The air was almost viscous with scent.

  I picked up a programme and skim-read the introduction. Five million children at risk in Malawi … hunger in Kenya … continuing crisis in Zimbabwe … in desperate need of help … Then came the list of lots – twenty of which were in the Silent Auction, while the ten ‘star’ lots were to be auctioned live. These included a week in a Venetian palazzo, a luxury break at the Ritz, tickets for the first night of Swan Lake at Covent Garden with Carlos Acosta, a shopping trip to Harvey Nichols with Gok Wan, a dinner party for eight cooked by Gordon Ramsay and an evening dress designed by Maria Grachvogel. There was an electric guitar signed by Paul McCartney and a Chelsea FC shirt signed by the current squad. The final lot was A portrait commission by Gabriella Graham, kindly donated by the artist. As I looked at the crowd I wondered who I’d end up painting.

  Suddenly I spotted Roy, waving. He walked towards me. ‘Ella-Bella!’ He placed a paternal kiss on my cheek.

  Damn Clare, I thought. Here was my father.

  ‘Hello, Roy.’ I nodded at his daffodil-dotted bow tie. ‘Nice neckwear. Haven’t seen that one before, have I?’

  ‘It’s new – thought I’d christen it tonigh
t in honour of the spring. Now, you need some fizz …’ He glanced around for a waiter.

  ‘I’d love some. It’s been a long day.’

  Roy got me a glass of champagne and handed it to me with an appraising glance. ‘So, how’s our Number One Girl?’

  I smiled at the familiar, affectionate appellation. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Your mum was getting slightly twitchy, but then this is a big event. Ah, here she comes …’

  My mother was gliding through the crowd towards us, her slender frame swathed in amethyst chiffon, her ash-blonde hair swept into a perfect French pleat.

  She held out her arms to me. ‘El-la.’ Her tone suggested a reproach rather than a greeting. ‘I’d almost given up on you, darling.’ As she kissed me I inhaled the familiar scent of her Fracas. ‘Now, I need you to be on hand to talk to people about the portrait commission. We’ve put the easel over there, look, in the presentation area, and I’ve made you a label so that people will know who you are.’ She opened her mauve satin clutch, took out a laminated name badge and had already pinned it to my lapel before I could protest about the mark it might leave on the velvet. ‘I’m hoping the portrait will fetch a high price. We’re aiming to raise seventy-five thousand pounds tonight.’

  ‘Well, fingers crossed.’ I adjusted the badge. ‘But you’ve got some great items.’

  ‘And all donated,’ she said wonderingly. ‘We haven’t had to buy anything. Everyone’s been so generous.’

  ‘Only because you’re so persuasive,’ said Roy. ‘I often think you could persuade the rain not to fall, Sue, I really do.’

  Mum gave him an indulgent smile. ‘I’m just focused and well organised. I know how I want things to be.’

  ‘You’re formidable,’ Roy said amiably, ‘in both the English and the French meaning of that word.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Sue – and to a successful event.’

  I sipped my champagne then nodded at the empty podium. ‘So who’s wielding the gavel?’

  Mum adjusted her pashmina. ‘Tim Spiers. He’s ex-Christie’s and brilliant at cajoling people into parting with their cash – having said which, I’ve instructed the waiters to keep topping up the glasses.’