such things, I know, but it was a comradely place; I was not unhappy there. My father had decided he wanted me off his hands, and that I should be put to work, as he put it, earning good money. A trade, in fact, and it says something of him that he chose the best one—despite his apparent lack of interest in me, he could be a thoughtful man to his children, if harsh and unforgiving as well. He is one of the few people I have ever missed. A lesser parent might have sent me to the shipyards, to become a boilermaker, or apprenticed me in a bank as a clerk. It would have been cheaper, the rewards more sure. Such a place would have killed me. I’m not being dramatic; I mean merely that I would have stayed there and never found the courage to leave. In due course I would have been given my gold watch, and died, and that would have been that.
But he sent me to a drawing office instead, and I worked there until I was near twenty-three. I was absent in spirit for the last two, as I was by then spending every spare evening at the art school and passed the days dreaming of grander things. No matter; my moment of epiphany came at work, when I was not yet seventeen. I had been put to a design for a biscuit tin, a scene of elegant ladies taking tea in a drawing room, servants in the background. Bright and sunny and cheerful. No longer will you be in some little terraced house in the back streets of some grimy industrial suburb. One bite of what lies within and the good life will be yours. That was to be the message of my tin, eventually emblazoned on countless thousands of Messrs Huntley and Palmer’s best butter shortbreads. I’d been working on it steadily for days, and suddenly time stopped. At about a quarter past eleven on a cold November morning. When it started again, the tin was finished. My ladies breathed, you could smell the freshly brewed tea, the sun really did shine in through the broad windows, the fire in the grate had a real warmth. You could feel it.
It was, dare I say it, a masterpiece, my first and perhaps only one. Not that that matters; what I am trying to say is that for the first time I knew what prayer was. Not the grim special pleading that still took place at the foot of my bed every night, but a true communion. My mind and my body and my soul all totally committed to the process. There was no difference between them at all. It was a special moment, that one; it may have lasted for a couple of hours in all, and when I was finished my eyes hurt and my back ached and my fingers were so cramped from holding the brush that I had to take them and straighten them out with my other hand. But I was more exhilarated than I had ever been in my life.
There was no-one to tell about it; no-one in that office or at home could possibly understand. But I had changed irrevocably, and my days as a draughtsman and commercial painter were numbered. I knew the difference between painting and creating, the joy of doing something so perfectly that it made sense of everything else. Yes, yes. I see your smile. A biscuit tin. But don’t you see? It was a
Oh, they liked it, but I didn’t get the shilling bonus I’d expected because I had departed from my instructions. Four figures taking tea, they had said. And I had only put in three, because three was all that was needed. Four would have been excessive; would have ruined the whole. They merely thought I was trying to skimp on the work; so no shilling for me. Not that I cared. I knew how good it was, you see, and that was all that mattered then. For a brief moment, I really didn’t care what anyone else thought.
And that is what a painter is. Someone who prays with his brush, something the critic can never do and can never properly understand. From that moment, I have wanted to recapture the moment of paradise that I found in that noisy, cold workroom. I’ve spent the rest of my life chasing it; sometimes coming close, but most of the time missing. For most of the time I have been no different to those journey-men I left behind me. They churn out the biscuit tins, I turned out paintings of rich women. Somewhere, I lost my innocence.
YOU NEVER understood any of this. You thought I wished to escape from my past, put it all behind me and bathe in the fresh air of the cosmopolitan world. Rid myself of the stultifying, cramped pettiness of Scotland. Not so; not entirely. You thought that my progress—after I had met you—was one of growth, turning myself into an artist and a human being, my triumph being all the greater because I didn’t allow Scotland to crush me. Nothing is ever so simple, alas.
Let me explain. I told you often about getting up at five every morning in the icy Gorbals lodgings I stayed in, going to work with a slice of dried porridge in my pocket for my lunch; of working with chilblains on my fingers in winter, of never seeing daylight for six months of the year. Working from seven in the morning to seven at night six days a week with four days holiday a year. Turning out drawings of cogs and machinery, architectural plans, biscuit tins, posters—anything that came in. Rarely even knowing what it was for or who it was for. Bleak and joyless, no? Well, no. To you, of course, it is so far removed from anything you have experienced that it must seem so, and I confess I made it sound as grim as possible. I wished to be like you in those days, to feel and think as I ought. But I wasn’t really telling the truth. I don’t look back on that time of my life with a shudder at all.
Even working for the magazines in London had its enjoyable side, though the work was hard and the pay terrible. Spending an entire day outside the Old Bailey to catch a glimpse of a murder suspect so a sketch could appear to spice up the account, the faces distorted to look properly criminal, is a good training for the portraitist of an Impressionist tendency. You work fast, and there is no time for artistic vapours. You see, run off a sketch on the omnibus back to the office, have ten minutes to finish it off, if you’re lucky, then off on the next assignment. Not that anybody ever really looked at the result.
There was one man, accused of killing his wife for her inheritance, who had a passing resemblance to the prime minister. Just to see what would happen, I put in a real sketch of Lord Salisbury, complete with hooded eyebrows, high-domed forehead and opulent beard. I even dressed him up in a proper frock coat. “Man Charged with Brutality and Theft,” was the headline, and my picture of the prime minister underneath. I waited for laughter, or at least to be dismissed from my post. Scarcely anyone noticed at all, except for my fellow journalists. Those illustrations were just decorations, to break up the monotony of the print. All my labour was there simply to give a little variety to the page, so the reader would not get too bored and start looking out of the window of the omnibus instead.
Don’t you also regret the lost enthusiasm of youth? Look back to that time when all was new and fresh, when nothing was known, all was to be discovered? When every joke was classic, every piece of tomfoolery a delight?
Perhaps not; your youth was so different to mine. Certainly I was afraid when I went to that drawing office in Glasgow, even though the relief of leaving home was so great that almost anything was preferable. The size and horror of the big city, the loneliness, the cold, all chilled me. But it was exciting to feel such intensity in the world. Before I had only had such extreme emotions from the inside; only guilt and the fear of God and mother had made me feel so alive.
And I met people such as I never dreamed existed—wastrels always joking and blaspheming; drunks who could do a better job after half a bottle of whisky than most men sober; the occasional bully; the more frequent saint. I became the mascot of them all, just as I became your mascot when I came south. But the difference was that they wanted nothing from me.
They taught me, too. The one thing I had been good at in school was drawing; I could do plans of complicated machines far beyond the capabilities of my fellows at school, but when I got to the workshop I realised I could do almost nothing; that my pride was misplaced. More than anything, it taught me never to think I was finished.
I started learning, as I had never learned before or since. And if I am often scornful of the technical failings of others, it is because I know how hard it is to acquire good technique. I acquired mine by constant labour and study, year after year, day in and day out. It did not come naturally or easily, and it is the one thing I am truly proud of. Naturally I protect my skill against those who dismiss it as redundant, or old-fashioned. To get what you want—exactly the effect you have in your mind and no other—you have to have mastery, otherwise you are like a man trying to speak English with only a limited vocabulary. Unless you have that range, you end up saying what you can say, not what you mean. And once you do that you begin to tramp the road of dishonesty, persuading first others then yourself that there is no difference between the two.
PERHAPS IT WAS the show that brought about such a change in you. The Show, I should call it, complete with capital letters, because it was the start of a revolution in our poor little island, was it not? When the gales of
