The National Gallery

I was 27 when I first visited the National Gallery. That may be surprising, nontheless it is true. It’s also true that something had been brewing for a while. A sense of unrest and a deep-seated need to find a direction in life. More importantly it was a desire to be creative.

I had been working in West End theatres since returning from America in 1974. Stage crews were filled with painters, sculptors, poets, film makers, dancers, musicians, and out of work actors. I felt out of the mix. Naturally, discussions about differential equations, or the stresses on a rocket, were not exactly ice-breakers. In fact I’d had enough of science and logic

I loved film, and I did have a hankering for getting into the movie business. Maybe even making films. I tried a few avenues. I even interviewed at Elstree Studios only to be told that a degree in rocket science overqualified me.

In early 1979, I began making some drawings. I even tried painting. Yet I knew I needed lessons. So I spoke with another stagehand. He was a sculptor and had studied at Chelsea College. I asked him how one went about getting into art school.

“You need a portfolio of work,” he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about. But I soon learned. I also began checking books out of my local library. Books on art and artists. That led to me to want to look at the real thing.

I had a gallery in mind. It wasn’t far from Covent Garden, where I worked.

I spent a couple of hours walking around those marvelous rooms of great art. I was mesmerised; it was a Damascene conversion. By the time I walked out onto Trafalgar Square I knew I was going to spend my life as a painter.

I began visiting the National Gallery on a regular basis. The painters who impressed me most were Turner, Rembrandt and Velázquez.

So what drew me to these paintings?

Turner’s paintings revelled in light, colour, and beauty.
Rembrandt’s work evoked tenderness and humanity, and was rendered by a great artist’s manipulation of oil paint. 
The Velázquez portrait evoked power and majesty, and I was immediately in awe of his ability to depict surfaces.

The next obstacle was getting a place at an art school. Naivety and ignorance can be a blessing. Because if I knew now what I didn’t know then I would never have tried to enter an art school.

The following year, 1980, I applied for a Foundation course in art at Camberwell Art School in South London.

You can read about this here.

Whenever I need a reminder of what constitutes great painting, I visit the National Gallery. I never spend long there, maybe 30-40 minutes. I choose three paintings, sometimes less. After almost 50 years, these paintings are like old friends.
Piero’s masterpiece is one of my favourites, as is Bellini’s portrait of the Doge.

During this time, others have joined this list, even some that, when I was much younger, I never gave so much as a passing glance. Veronese’s The Family of Darius before Alexander being a notable example.
But that’s what great art does. It doesn’t change, but we do.