in London! Mr Hogarth is furious, he calls me a “phizzmonger”.’
‘Mr Hogarth?’
Her brother lay back, gleeful, on the carriage seat. ‘Phizzmonger! That is his dismissive word for Face-Painter. Let him be dismissive then! You will not have heard of him of course . . . Dio Mio! There will be much for you to learn if you are to join an Artist’s Household, bella mia . And—’
‘But Mr Hogarth—’
‘William Hogarth is an English Painter, and he is well-known, certainly, but more for his caricatures than his Portraits: A Rake’s Progress indeed! Gin Lane ! You would not think we were painting in the same city, he and I! And his actual Portraits are bad: they are real in the wrong way, for there is a way of painting a Face and Mr Hogarth does not understand that. His skill is to paint an exact Likeness - anyone can do that, I say. It is to make people look noble that is the Art.’
‘But Philip, Mr Hogarth—’
‘He is a Painter falling and I am a Painter rising in the London Art World. All my sitters emerge from my Studio with a kind of nobility about them - even should they be merely an Apothecary. That is why I earn so much Money . Mr Hogarth is a fool: he paints an Apothecary to look like an Apothecary. And he is fractious to boot, and involves himself in Politics; he is forever suggesting a Society of Artists should be formed where all Artists are equal! Ha! I certainly do not want to be ‘equal’ to all the unsuccessful Artists of England, after all my strenuous activities! And who would want to be painted by the rancorous, argumentative Mr Hogarth when they can be painted by the accomplished nobleman from the European tradition, Filipo di Vecellio? I am already earning guineas beyond my wildest Dreams and I would never have received all the Commissions - believe me, Grace - if I came from Bristol.’
‘You do come from Bristol.’ The coach veered dangerously, a wheel caught in a rut. The brother and sister, falling sideways, hardly noticed.
‘No, bella mia . I am Filipo di Vecellio from Florence and, I repeat, both the Nobility and the Apothecaries - for I do not discern, I will paint anybody who can afford me - think their Portraits are being painted by an elegant, talented, noble Italian soaked in the Classical Tradition!’ And Philip’s eyes danced again with laughter and he sat back again in the coach, a satisfied man who had found his destiny - and incidentally his sister also. Grace felt dizzy: the rattling, swaying coach, or so much conversation, or so many emotions in half a day. ‘But, Philip - you do come from Bristol,’ she insistently repeated, for he was denying their past; she saw him in her head declaiming in the Bristol Public Library, and the words came out, right there in the coach, almost without her meaning them to: ‘Cry God for Harry! England and St George! ’
He looked at her for a moment, and then his expression changed completely.
‘Listen, Grace,’ he said coldly, ‘I see that you have no idea what I am talking of.’ Quite suddenly his eyes were very hard, a new look that at once jolted her. ‘I know a man who paints sky and clouds by the yard. He sits in his attic in London and that is what he does - day in, day out - and people buy his sky, by the yard, to place about their chimneys as Decoration. He is not a bad Painter but he comes from Newcastle. If it was known I came from Bristol I might be painting sky by the yard also. I understand what my Sitters want because it is what I want : to rise upwards. That is why I am so successful. And that is why you must realise how infinitely lucky you are.’ The eyes were hard and the voice was hard. She stared at this stranger; it was as if her brother had disappeared and she sat before a stranger in a jolting, swaying carriage. She abruptly remembered his sudden, long-ago rages.
‘Mr Joshua Reynolds, an Englishman, cannot command custom in the way I can; one day soon I expect to paint Royalty.’
She felt
‘Mr Hogarth?’
Her brother lay back, gleeful, on the carriage seat. ‘Phizzmonger! That is his dismissive word for Face-Painter. Let him be dismissive then! You will not have heard of him of course . . . Dio Mio! There will be much for you to learn if you are to join an Artist’s Household, bella mia . And—’
‘But Mr Hogarth—’
‘William Hogarth is an English Painter, and he is well-known, certainly, but more for his caricatures than his Portraits: A Rake’s Progress indeed! Gin Lane ! You would not think we were painting in the same city, he and I! And his actual Portraits are bad: they are real in the wrong way, for there is a way of painting a Face and Mr Hogarth does not understand that. His skill is to paint an exact Likeness - anyone can do that, I say. It is to make people look noble that is the Art.’
‘But Philip, Mr Hogarth—’
‘He is a Painter falling and I am a Painter rising in the London Art World. All my sitters emerge from my Studio with a kind of nobility about them - even should they be merely an Apothecary. That is why I earn so much Money . Mr Hogarth is a fool: he paints an Apothecary to look like an Apothecary. And he is fractious to boot, and involves himself in Politics; he is forever suggesting a Society of Artists should be formed where all Artists are equal! Ha! I certainly do not want to be ‘equal’ to all the unsuccessful Artists of England, after all my strenuous activities! And who would want to be painted by the rancorous, argumentative Mr Hogarth when they can be painted by the accomplished nobleman from the European tradition, Filipo di Vecellio? I am already earning guineas beyond my wildest Dreams and I would never have received all the Commissions - believe me, Grace - if I came from Bristol.’
‘You do come from Bristol.’ The coach veered dangerously, a wheel caught in a rut. The brother and sister, falling sideways, hardly noticed.
‘No, bella mia . I am Filipo di Vecellio from Florence and, I repeat, both the Nobility and the Apothecaries - for I do not discern, I will paint anybody who can afford me - think their Portraits are being painted by an elegant, talented, noble Italian soaked in the Classical Tradition!’ And Philip’s eyes danced again with laughter and he sat back again in the coach, a satisfied man who had found his destiny - and incidentally his sister also. Grace felt dizzy: the rattling, swaying coach, or so much conversation, or so many emotions in half a day. ‘But, Philip - you do come from Bristol,’ she insistently repeated, for he was denying their past; she saw him in her head declaiming in the Bristol Public Library, and the words came out, right there in the coach, almost without her meaning them to: ‘Cry God for Harry! England and St George! ’
He looked at her for a moment, and then his expression changed completely.
‘Listen, Grace,’ he said coldly, ‘I see that you have no idea what I am talking of.’ Quite suddenly his eyes were very hard, a new look that at once jolted her. ‘I know a man who paints sky and clouds by the yard. He sits in his attic in London and that is what he does - day in, day out - and people buy his sky, by the yard, to place about their chimneys as Decoration. He is not a bad Painter but he comes from Newcastle. If it was known I came from Bristol I might be painting sky by the yard also. I understand what my Sitters want because it is what I want : to rise upwards. That is why I am so successful. And that is why you must realise how infinitely lucky you are.’ The eyes were hard and the voice was hard. She stared at this stranger; it was as if her brother had disappeared and she sat before a stranger in a jolting, swaying carriage. She abruptly remembered his sudden, long-ago rages.
‘Mr Joshua Reynolds, an Englishman, cannot command custom in the way I can; one day soon I expect to paint Royalty.’
She felt
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