Pain in the Arts

And so, some poor chap named Altunin has had to flee Russia, seeking asylum in France (correction: very poor chap), for painting a portrait of Russian President Putin and Prime Minister Medvedev in women's underwear combing each other's hair.

And rather confusingly shapely they are too!

Not something I think anyone would have wanted painted; but I'm not here to discuss what is 'art' and what is not, political or otherwise.  Though if an unmade bed and a pickled shark can be called 'art', then Alistair's bedroom is clearly an untapped font of creative energy.

Rather, the story took me back to when Henry and I got our first joint portrait done.

It was soon after we were married and settled down in Airnefitchie.  Our separate portraits wouldn't both fit above the fireplace, so we had to commission a joint one.  We hired a nice art student from Glen Goil Polytechnic called Leonardo Acropolis and had him to afternoon tea to discuss specifics.  Henry thought the lad’s Royal Stewart tartan tights were ‘going it a bit’, especially paired with ammunition boots; but I thought they were charming, if leaving very little to the imagination (the tights not the boots). 

Mr 'No-I-Will-Not-Call-You-Leo' Acropolis had an endless list of questions.  We had a number of ‘totally bad-ass hangouts’ around the castle, but at that time of year (mid-Autumn) would the light be sufficient for an outdoor painting?  Did we want a grand background or a simple one?  Would our new puppies, Patches and Fang feature at our feet? I had rather hoped he'd have the inspiration, not that we would give it to him.

Then came the trickiest question of all: traditional or modern?

Well, naturally we are very traditional people, but we too can be modern.  We just choose not to be.  Should we show the future this?  Show them that we will adapt the thickness of our tweed to suit the climate of the time?  Didn’t great-uncle Lopso marry a Rhodesian flapper/suffragette/aviatrix?

We told Mr Acropolis that we would like a traditional setting, but he could add a modern flair if he so wished and was fairly sure he could make it work.  His voice confidently said yes, but his eyes did flicker nervously for a moment.  He then finished the last scone without asking anyone else if they wanted it and disappeared to start gathering the materials he would need.

In the meantime, Henry and I discussed locations.  Vegetable garden?  No, too earthy.  We weren't farmers or anything, just hobbyists.  Summer house?  Too cold.  Orchard?  Possibly, but what if it rained?  And you couldn't keep Patches and Fang still long enough to pose when outside.  What about modern?  How can we show that we're not really stuck in the Dark Ages?  How about in the bathroom?  Absolutely not!  Kitchen?  Possibility.  The dogs already loved lying in front of the warm Aga, so it would be easy to keep them in the frame.

We walked around the house for an entire day, discussing which tapestry might look good behind us, or which antique grandfather clock would be too 'showy'.

Most of them were, unfortunately.  I blame William and Mary.

We finally decided on an old classic.  In front of the fireplace in the great hall.  Traditional, yes, but we would stand either side of it, each with a dog.  I'd be in my best plus fours and we would both be smoking our pipes.  Equality, rather than truly traditional.  Not to mention the ‘op art’ touch of then hanging the portrait over the fire that features in it.  Surely that would be mind-boggling enough?  A fireplace within a fireplace?  Especially if we're able to get Mr Acropolis to paint the portrait over the fireplace in the portrait.  Then it would be a fireplace, within a fireplace, within a fireplace…

Mr Acroplis came back, in another equally fetching outfit covered with spikes and studs – not entirely unlike the Duke of Burgundy’s 14th-century get-up in the National Army Museum in Paris – with every oil paint, a very retro palette board and some canvas.  He liked our idea about the pose and we set up the shot, or whatever it is painters call it.  We gave Patches and Fang some baby-sized steaks, so that they could munch away oblivious to being made to sit still for so long.  Mr Acroplis started by taking a few photos on a Polaroid camera and then sat down at his canvas, pencil in hand, ready to sketch.

Well, then Henry needed the loo.

Much thumb twiddling later, we were back and ready.

Then Patches finished his steak and started chewing on my plus fours.  Luckily, they're very sturdy, I still wear them today (although I have changed my clothing many times since then, of course), and there was no harm done; but we did have to find something else for him to chew on.

Fortunately, we always have pizzles lying around.

Third time lucky?

The door knocker knocked and I had to shoo off a company of Jehovah's Witnesses, really quite forcibly.  Nowadays they just stand around train station entrances holding out leaflets, but not actually ordering you to take one like in the old days.  Perhaps I forced one or two too many off my doorstep; at any rate, they've lost their spirit.  Smeaton used to beat them savagely with his hayfork.  Not the business end, mind you; Smeaton claims to be a strict Baptist and disapproves of missionary-murdering, however richly it may be deserved.

But I digress.

After five or six hours of attempting to get everyone to stand still for the portrait, Mr Acroplis suggested we take a break.  We heartily agreed and put the kettle on.  Ironically, perhaps, during the aforementioned break there was not one single disturbance.  Not one.  It wasn't until we were ready to try again that the postman turned up needing a signature on a new order of Argentinian polo boots.

Mr Acroplis gave up.  He took a few more photos of the little details and then left to finish the work at his studio or flat, or both.

Or hovel…

For a month we heard nothing.

Then, it turned up.  Just landed on our doorstep, so to speak, with an invoice taped to the brown paper wrapping.  Eagerly we took it into the Great Hall ready to put it up immediately.  We opened the brown paper…

Seems familiar

At least I didn't have to comb Henry's hair in my underwear.  That's an entirely different story.