Free The Portrait by Iain Pears Page B

finished. About a dozen paintings, one of which he planned to submit to the next New English exhibition. But he was living in his mind, and knew that sooner or later these works would have to be shown to others. So he invited us to a small dinner. Just you and me; the people he trusted. You must remember it! I know you do; you’d be lying to deny it. I recall every second. It was one of the most distressing evenings of my life.
    His tension, his agitation were terrible. I could understand why he was nervous of you; you had already established yourself as the great arbiter of the modern and the worthy, and if he was frightened of me it was only by association. I have never been a severe critic of others. He did his best to be hospitable, dropping things on the floor, spilling wine on the table; I could hardly bear it. Poor man! I thought he was prolonging the social niceties because of gaucheness; but I was wrong. Miserable as it was, he wanted it to last as long as possible. I think that in his heart he knew already they were the last few moments when he would be able to think of himself as a painter.
    Eventually the moment came. “Oh yes, I have been working. Quite a lot, in fact. Pleased with my efforts. Think they’ll be more than good enough.” The staccato phrases, delivered with a fake drawl of self-confidence, only showed how on edge he was. “Want to see them? Oh, very well then, if you must . . .”
    Then it began. One by one, the pictures brought out; one by one, put on the easel; one by one, a grunt or sniff from you, and the silence of increasing despondency from me. Surely you remember them? They weren’t that bad. They really weren’t. They were competent, even charming. But mechanical and lifeless—frozen people, dead landscapes, pointless interiors with no shape or form. How could he not see? How could he not do better?
    And when he had finished, you started. Picture by picture. Perhaps you began in the spirit of constructive criticism, I don’t know. But as you worked your way through each canvas, the joy of the hunt came upon you. The pitilessness of it was terrible. Every fault, every weakness you spotted and pointed out; each painting was dismantled, colour by colour, line by line, form by form. Nothing escaped you: it was a tour de force, a brilliant piece of sustained, improvised destruction. And throughout it all, poor Anderson had to sit there, politely, respectfully, not able to show on his face how you were torturing him as you ground his dreams to dust. He hoped, no doubt, that you would clap your hands and acclaim each one as a masterpiece. At the very least, he hoped for dishonesty on your part; polite praise and a promise to put in a word with some hanging committee, to find a place on their walls for one picture, to give him a chance.
    But dishonesty was not in your character—not then, at any rate. That would have been a betrayal of something more important than friendship, of mere human relations. Anderson was no good. That was all that concerned you. It was his job to face up to it. Your job to make him do so. You were cruel in the name of art, vicious in its protection. You left him a hollow man, for you took away his dreams and showed him what he really was. The critic as mirror: unflattering, harsh, but bitterly truthful.
    I could not have done it. I would have taken the polite, dishonest, reassuring route. It would have led to the same place eventually, no doubt. Nor could I disagree with what you said; as ever, you were right, each fault was real, and you did not exaggerate. You were judicious in your devastation, calm in your violence.
    But still, I did catch that flicker in your eye, something of the sort that I had seen once before. A hidden pleasure, a satisfaction. Power controls the artist. You were laying claim to that power, flexing your muscles. You decided who was or was not to be counted in the ranks. And you expelled Anderson.
    I know; you didn’t realise how badly