97. Portrait studies by David Ferguson.
In April we took a short break to Cornwall to see how the portrait was progressing. Would we consider the work finished? Would it then be necessary to wrestle the picture away from him? Would I even like the look of it?
Paintings were stacked against the walls of his studio and a handsome framed portrait of another sitter was displayed on the easel. A beautiful face, beautifully painted.
David had studied at the Slade under William Coldstream, whose rigorous observation and painstaking method he employs. The dimensions of my head had been carefully noted, by means of artists' calipers, during the initial sittings. On this visit he asked me to take the same pose. "You've changed," he stated. I allowed myself a small smile but didn't state the obvious, that I am three years older. A Dorian Grey moment! I was pleased to find that he was working on two studies of my head and shoulders in different formats, one portrait, the other square. he took the framed work down from the easel and displayed the larger piece, the portrait format.
I was looking at my mother!
For the sitting I had worn a grey linen dress because the colour was neutral and the style simple, exposing shoulders and collar bones. But when I looked at the dress in the painting it took on a greater significance. Every year throughout my childhood my father had bought me a party dress. It had been his pleasure to take me into town to choose something lovely. After his death I cashed in an insurance bond that he had taken out at my birth and spent the money on the grey dress. When I brought it home my husband said, "Your father bought you that dress." How pleased I was to have worn it to the sittings.
I have shown these photographs of the two pieces of work in progress to artist friends and am surprised by their reactions. "It isn't you," they said. "He hasn't captured your liveliness." They see me most often in company when I am noisy and opinionated. This, I think, is what they mean by lively.
"I wouldn't want him to paint me!" said one.
But when members of the family look at the images they see both my mother and me, captured clearly.
98. Carved ebony 'crocodile' 25cm length.
This is just one of many small tourist carvings that we bought on holiday in Kenya over a quarter of a century ago. I had no idea at the time of purchase that it would prove to be such a useful object. It has been in almost daily use ever since, positioned on the piano just beyond the kitchen door within easy reach when we open the morning mail at the kitchen table. The crocodile is not only a humorous- looking object, it is also extremely well designed, fitting comfortably into the hand, the tail slicing neatly and efficiently through paper envelopes. Opening post without it feels a messy and unsatisfactory business.
99. Headstone for a dog. Sleeping lamb, concrete.
As a small child the first dog that I chose and called my own was a miniature black poodle. Because the breed was of French origin I called her Michelle, many years before the name was made popular by the Paul McCartney song. She was the perfect companion for a little girl because she was intelligent and responsive to teaching and had a curly coat that required endless grooming and styling. I was broken- hearted when she died. My father buried her in the garden and made the concrete lamb to mark her grave. It has traveled with me to various homes and been a marker for much-loved pets. It is not wearing too well, having lost a fair amount of definition over the years!
Now it is placed beneath the walnut tree in the garden of our present home and marks the grave of my adored smooth fox-terrier, Maisie. It was one of her favourite places to bask in the morning sunshine while keeping an eye on me as I worked among the vegetables.