The Optickal Illusion

by Rachel Halliburton

  He experiences some pain when he returns to his bedroom to put his breeches on. The model he has been painting as a demure Venus for one of his patrons comes from a high-class brothel in Pall Mall, and last night she revealed herself to have a talent for birching. He had never been whipped before, and at the first shock of the wood against his buttocks felt it to be profoundly unerotic. But after a few more strokes, as his buttocks began to throb, he felt he was getting an erection and cried out for her to whip him harder. The sex that followed was frenzied – he has memories at one point of his head hitting the bedstead, another of smashing up against his mahogany wardrobe before taking her from behind. He raises his nightshirt. A large bruise is starting to bloom to the left of his ribs. ‘In truth, I cannot remember how she administered this one,’ he mutters.

  Since neither his mind nor his body seem fit to do work involving concentration, he decides he will not stay at home that morning, but will visit the shop of local colourman, Constant de Massoul. Though painters’ supply shops flourish all around St Martin’s Lane, Covent Garden, and Newman Street, Monsieur de Massoul’s shop is considered one of the best. The Frenchman himself – an exiled royalist – is considered as peregrine as the wares he peddles. With his darting grey-blue eyes and rasping voice, he delivers lengthy and often dubious accounts of the origins of his paints. He spits when he is talking enthusiastically, which is often. Customers have learnt to keep themselves at a distance if a new colour is in store.

  His shop has a distinctive smell – of linseed oil and sawdust. The paints are sold both as powders and ready mixed in pigs’ bladders. The bladders must be handled carefully in order to avoid leakage. It is not unknown for an entire bladder to burst, sometimes on the journey between the colour shop and home.

  It comes as little surprise to Westall to find two other painters from the Academy at Monsieur de Massoul’s shop – Robert Smirke and Thomas Stothard. The beginning of the New Year has brought a surge of business as the looming annual exhibition at the Academy creates an intensified demand for materials. In contrast to the small societies for exhibiting in the past, the Academy’s greatest success has been to elevate the viewing of contemporary art to a scale and prestige never witnessed before. There is talk that a National Gallery might be established too – for some years Benjamin West has been involved in negotiations on this very matter. But in this time of war, dinner party orators tend to believe that the money involved would be better devoted to the Navy.

  At Monsieur de Massoul’s shop the profit on the rabbit-skin glue used for preparing canvases is considerable this time of year, as indeed it is on lead white paint. There are rare brushes of badger, squirrel and sable hair on offer, alongside the more common hog’s bristle brushes. Among his most professional customers, the weave and fibre type of canvases is discussed obsessively. Flax and hemp are the most common materials used, while artists can spend many tedious hours debating whether plain, twill or herringbone weave will benefit them the most.

  Westall does not need to talk to Smirke and Stothard for long to perceive that they – while not intoxicated as he is – are in that state of mind preceding creativity where any distraction is most welcome. So he suggests they go to his studio where they begin drinking gin and water at eleven o’clock and continue until lunchtime. His disaffection with the world persists. So he decides with a streak of sadism to propose a game in which he presents the gin and water in identical bottles. Then he instructs his companions to choose which liquid will fill a fifth of their glass and which four-fifths simply by pointing from a distance.

  Two hours later Smirke remains the most dignified of the three as he walks with exaggerated slowness up and down the room. Even so Westall can see the mottling of red veins in his cheeks, the slightly uncontrolled sway as he marks his step with his cane. Stothard – a large red-haired man with a flickering cold-blooded gaze – has become drunk much more quickly and is collapsed on a chair. It is as if his body contains half the bones it did when he arrived.

  ‘Urine?’ he declares loudly. ‘You say urine?’

  ‘That is correct,’ replies Westall. ‘I thought I would attempt a study of Mount Vesuvius…’ he suppresses a belch, ‘so I bought some Indian yellow to pick out the reflection of erupting lava.’

  ‘A fine pigment,’ replies Smirke. ‘If strong smelling.’

  ‘That is right, sir. You have hit the mark. All paints have their own odour, but this is a stench that turns the stomach when you first open the jar. I asked Monsieur de Massoul if he could account for why it is so rank. And he replied that is because of the urine used to make it.’

  ‘Urine,’ repeats Stothard loudly once more.

  ‘This particular urine comes from Indian cows fed only on mango leaves and water. It is collected in a bucket and the liquid is reduced over a fire. What remains is filtered through a cloth, and the sediment is then rolled into balls.’

  Smirke regards him sceptically.

  ‘No cow could survive solely on a diet of mango leaves,’ he replies briskly. He has a cadaverous slimness that exaggerates his current lack of balance – warily he lowers himself into place in a nearby chair and leans his cane against it. ‘That is surely a myth.’

  ‘I do not dispute Monsieur de Massoul’s tedious talent for ornamentation,’ retorts Westall. ‘Yet the story is true. Many of our paints have either absurd or dangerous histories. Verdigris also uses urine, does it not?’

  ‘But not from cows fed only on mango leaves,’ says Smirke. ‘And I think you’ll find that creating verdigris by using urine to start a reaction with copper is increasingly rare these days. Most colourmen find vinegar more effective.’

  Westall gets up and does a turn round the room. He looks through the window as if wishing by the force of his gaze to transport himself elsewhere. Smirke eyes him indulgently as he does so. In temperament the men are as different as earth and air. But in speed of wit they are similar, and it is this that allows them to tolerate each other. Smirke knows that Westall had lost his mother and seen his father go bankrupt by the time he reached seven. It is a conversation the two men would never have had between themselves, but there have been enough whispers at the Academy for Smirke to become acquainted with the wretched details of the situation. He appreciates that Westall’s response to life’s mocking cruelty has been to mock life in return. Though his own life seems marked by precision and order, he has sympathy for those who choose a more rebellious course.

  ‘Mr Smirke,’ Westall declares as he turns back from the window. ‘Let me refresh myself with a glass of water, and see if I can think of an example that might kill your scepticism.’

  He walks over to the bottle that Smirke knows from his observations to contain alcohol and pours it into his glass, filling it to the brim. Then he tips it down his gullet till none is left. Smirke raises his eyebrows, while taking a sip of his own drink.

  ‘Pray do not over-exert yourself, Mr Westall,’ he says. ‘I am in agreement with you – the history of paints is knotted up with some of humanity’s lowest moments as well as its greatest.’

  ‘And its cruellest,’ Stothard interrupts dourly. ‘For yellow we take piss from undernourished cows. For cochineal we roast insects. Then we mix these colours and put them together in the bladders of English pigs.’ He tilts his empty glass back and forth in his hands. ‘As artists we strive to represent beauty. But we cannot do it, it seems, without inflicting a wide range of tortures on every other species.’

  His belch is thunderous. Westall, who has at first stared at him as if he were a madman, now starts to laugh till tears torrent down his cheeks. Stothard allows a small gratified smile to invade his flushed face.

  ‘Would you like to take another drink?’ Westall asks. He takes hold of the tray with the two bottles on it, they sway like two passengers on a ship at sea.

  ‘Pour me a drink from one or the other – I am happy to take the gamble as to whether it will make me more inebriated or less,’ said Stothard.

&
nbsp; ‘I will have none,’ replies Smirke in answer to the raised bottles. ‘I must depart soon, for I am taking lunch with my son today and I wish to be sitting upright for the occasion.’

  Westall bends over to put the tray on the table next to Stothard, and yelps with pain.

  Smirke looks at him alarmed.

  ‘Dear Westall, what ails you?’

  Westall starts shaking his head. He puts the tray down, then stands up straight and starts to finger the area on his left ribs. ‘It was not the girl,’ he says to himself in a tone of wonder as he traces the area of his bruise. ‘No, it was not the girl. It was the visitor.’

  ‘Mr Westall, I believe you are delirious.’

  Smirke says sharply.

  ‘No, no, I am not,’ declares Westall. ‘I had a visitation last night. It pertained,’ he checks himself, ‘yes, that is right. It pertained to something concerning Benjamin West.’

  Smirke sits forward.

  ‘Are you quite sure, Mr Westall?’

  Westall falls into the nearest chair. He picks up a glass from the floor and starts distractedly to flick his finger against it.

  ‘The man was most peculiar. Even though it was cold he was perspiring. Yes, he looked quite desperate. He had hammered on my door for ten minutes before I answered it. He put me in mind of a man who no longer cared what life did to him, or he to it. He said he wanted to seek my assistance.’

  Smirke is quiet for a moment.

  ‘Was he a beggar?’ he eventually asks.

  ‘No – he appeared peculiar as a specimen of the human race, but he was perfectly well-dressed.’

  ‘Did he stink?’ says Stothard.

  ‘No, Mr Stothard – he emitted no noxious fumes. He was clearly well acquainted with both soap and hot water.’

  ‘So what did he desire from you?’ This from Smirke.

  Westall is suddenly serious.

  ‘He said he wanted to report a theft.’

  He rubs his eyes.

  ‘What kind of theft?’

  ‘He said that…’ Westall frowns, ‘he said that £600 had been stolen from him.’

  Smirke leans forward.

  ‘Why was he reporting this to you?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘Because he said the person who had stolen the money from him was Benjamin West.’ Suddenly Westall feels a little more sober. ‘He told me he knew I was one of the few people at the Academy who saw Mr West for what he really was. So he wanted me to assist him in seeking justice.’

  Both Smirke and Stothard are silent.

  ‘Although, as you know, I am always interested to hear any tales that show Mr West in a bad light, my first interpretation of the situation was that he was mad. I asked him where he came from, and he said he was the Groom of the Vestry at the Chapel Royal. A Mr Provis. Now this is the most curious aspect of his story.’ Westall’s eyes flare. ‘He said he had supplied West with a method for Venetian Renaissance painting. He first took it to Cosway, who valued it at a considerable sum. So it was agreed it would be brought to West so that he could share it with the other members of the Academy.’

  ‘Did you credit him?’

  Smirke’s question raps out into the air.

  ‘At that point I could see no reason to doubt him. However, I had company,’ Westall colours slightly and is silent.

  ‘So you did not let him in,’ replies Smirke acerbically.

  ‘No I did not. I told him I was most interested in his story, but bade him return tomorrow.’

  ‘In other words, today.’

  ‘Indeed. When I said this, suddenly he took on an air of menace. He said it was more than a year since he first divulged details of the method to West, after inheriting it from his grandfather. Since West is using the method but has not handed any money over, he has, in effect, stolen Mr Provis’s inheritance. He said he was fed up with fine words and promises from artists. Grabbed me by the arm and eyed me like a mad dog. He said that if I wanted to do justice for an honest working man, I had to help him get the money.’

  Smirke’s expression subtly hardens. ‘And your response?’

  ‘I told him I would see him on the morrow. Then he punched me in the ribs.’

  ‘He attacked you?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Westall, feeling the bruise again. ‘I could have punched him back at any point. Yet there was some kind of physical transformation as his fist made contact with my skin – his complexion became scarlet and I feared he was about to have an apoplectic fit, so I restrained myself. The last thing I desired was a corpse lying in my front hall.’

  Smirke slowly raises himself from his chair.

  ‘Mr Provis sounds like a dubious character. Or do you think it is desperation that has made him so?’

  Westall does not reply.

  ‘He is saying Mr West is a thief and a liar,’ Smirke continues. ‘These are serious accusations indeed. Are you going to approach Mr West about this visitation?’

  ‘What precisely should I say?’ Westall straightens his back defensively. ‘So much of this apparent crime depends on whether or not this method is valuable. Often I find they are not. Those that claim to be are like potions that translate lead to gold, turn strumpets to virgins, and grant eternal life. Maybe West simply decided it wasn’t worth the money.’

  Smirke flips open the silver greyhound’s head at the top of his cane and takes a pinch of snuff.

  ‘It is all very well to be sceptical, my dear Westall. But while some of these methods are absurd, others have merit. Is it not the eternal strangeness of our profession that all we do is scratch lines and apply paint to canvas, yet at some point these lines and colours start to live and breathe? Some of this is to do with inspiration, but it is partly through the careful study of techniques involved. It is with this latter, and highly important, aspect of art that these methods concern themselves.’

  Westall holds up his glass, and peers at Smirke through it. ‘Why, you have become quite rhapsodic, Mr Smirke. I think it would benefit you to take gin for breakfast daily – it greatly improves your conversation.’

  Smirke ignores him.

  ‘If what Mr Provis claims is true, West is guilty of immense wrongdoing. As well as deceiving the members of the Royal Academy, he is defrauding the man who introduced him to the method.’

  ‘If what Mr Provis says is true,’ repeats Westall pointedly.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Westall takes a deep breath. ‘But I found myself unable to be entirely sympathetic to our Groom of the Vestry. His air of desperation made me wonder if the story is exactly as he has told it. I am the last man on earth to give credit to Benjamin West, but perhaps Mr Provis has proved unreasonable in his negotiations. If he turned to violence with me so quickly, who knows what threats he has issued against Mr West?’

  Smirke narrows his eyes, as if hoping by this device to clarify the situation being described.

  ‘We can take it that Mr Provis is not lying about his own connection with the manuscript? Why would he be privy to such an extraordinary piece of scholarship?’

  ‘If he inherited the manuscript, that is a creditable enough reason,’ says Westall. ‘That is the most straightforward aspect of his story.’

  Smirke rubs his chin. ‘It is worrying for West that a member of the Royal Household feels able to make any allegation against him. Five years ago he was there almost daily. Was not West, in fact, the first person outside the royal household to see the signs that King George was mad?’

  Westall nods. ‘It was after he had painted a landscape with a lion in it for Queen Charlotte. ‘I’m sure the lion was no good – West has little talent for painting animals.’ A muscle moves in Smirke’s right cheek, but he forebears to smile. ‘So I cannot say whether it was a moment of madness, or a rare moment of sanity when the King kept on insisting the lion was a dog,’ Westall continues. ‘West kept his counsel. But then the King took a paintbrush and swept a great line through it. Replaced it with some monstrous apparition that he swore was much better.’r />
  ‘West made no comment at all?’

  ‘He was dealing with the King – his great patron. I’m sure, being West, he said the only thing he could say – that it was clearly an improvement. If the King had stuck the paintbrush up his arse and told him to wag it like the tail of a dog, I have little doubt he would have done that too.’

  Smirke tuts, but this time a small laugh escapes him.

  ‘To return to Provis, I think we should commence by talking to West,’ continues Westall. ‘If the man is telling the truth, then maybe West will demonstrate some shame. In that case Provis should be paid the money to redeem his inheritance, and we can raise the question directly of his sharing the method with the rest of the Academy. If the man is lying, then there are plenty of ways for us to deal with him.’

  ‘Is West necessarily the right individual to approach first?’ asks Smirke. ‘Is there some more disinterested party who could verify the story either way?’

  Westall’s eyes are opaque for a moment.

  ‘What you say, Mr Smirke, contains a great deal of sense, as ever. I shall make some enquiries at the Palace about this man first. Find out the whispers on Mr Provis’s reputation. That way we shall find it easier to know how we must proceed.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The plot for revenge

  ‘The facultie of Painters, sayth Plato, knoweth no end in painting, but findeth still something to change or to adde; and it is altogether impossible that beautie and similitude should receive such an absolute consummation, as not to admit any further encrease. Thus doe they decline the supposed toilesomnesse of this Art before the least experiment; and they will not resolve to doe any thing, because they doe forsooth despaire to doe all. Neither is there any possibilitie to cure this overthwart humor of theirs, unlesse they doe first learne out of Vegetius, that all kind of worke seemeth to be hard before we doe try it. They must secondly, consider what a vehement efficacy there is in mans wit; wheresoever you doe bend your wit, sayth Salust, it will prevaile.’