I’ve always enjoyed an event in those early comedy films (was that the Marx Brothers?) where a banknote is given to someone and then artfully retrieved from the distracted recipient by a piece of string attached to it. Something like that has recently happened to a painting of mine which used to sit in a flat belonging to an old friend in the rue Baubourg in Paris. This enabled me to say that, although I didn’t have a painting in the Tate or the Pompidou, in both cases I did have one next door. Well, very sadly our old friend has died, and the painting has returned to England, to live on the wall of a London sitting room, so my dining-out sentence no longer works.

 

The painting is one of those which sits in a particular period of work, of which you say that you couldn’t do that now. Not entirely true, but an approximation: the technical ability may still be there, who knows, but the drive to produce this particular work, of this kind of work, has gone elsewhere. The conviction would be missing.

I couldn’t do that now!

 

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