very quiet. He watches the doctor’s face. I find myself embarrassed by the fact that the doctor is talking to me and not Dad. I also worry Dad’s about to say something. He has that look moreand more these days, as if he’s just going to come out and say it: ‘I hate this man. This is the son I hate. This is the son I had to beat nearly to death to get out of my house. This is who you have taking care of me. Who you have living with me. Help me.’
But he doesn’t say anything, just twists his mouth and watches the doctor talk. I notice how dirty Dad’s glasses are, and the stains on his trousers. I should have dressed him up for the doctor. I should be doing a better job. If I do a better job, maybe when the time comes he’ll forgive me for whatever it was I did so wrong.
Daniel
28th November
The Studio
Dear Mab –
I’ve been digging into the attic for days now and I finally reached your bed. Maggie was right, it was packed into pieces, and piled on top of it were canvases. New paintings. I’m not talking about a few pieces here, Mab. There are over twenty – and that’s not counting the sketches. The weirdest thing is: they are all portraits. They’re obviously Dad’s work, but I’ve never seen them before. Do you know anything about them?
Whoever stored them here couldn’t have cared much about the condition they would be found in. They’ve been piled face to face, so the oils have to be peeled free of each other, leaving eyes and ears and lip smears on the faceof their partner. Some I’m too scared to touch, they’re so bound together and dried into place.
There are three subjects: me, Sarah, and Dad himself. When could he have painted these? Oh, why do I ask you that question, when we both know when he must have done it?
But, they’re good, Mab. Really good. I think they must be some of his best work. And they are so different from the Nudes series. It’s not just that they’re portraits; the quality of brushwork and the insight is exquisite. They are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. But they are definitely Dad’s.
It was right at the bottom of the pile that I found the self-portraits. I have one propped in front of me while I write. He must have used several mirrors, because he doesn’t meet the eye. (In fact, thinking about it, most of the subjects are looking away into the far corners of the paintings… that old life model trick about never meeting the artist’s eye.) I know how you feel about self-portraits, but there’s none of that strained intensity you hate so much. He just looks as if he’s sitting there thinking about something, as if he’s watching TV. There’s a cigarette in his hand rather than a brush, and his glasses show a film of grime and slight reflections of the light from the window. There’s no trace of vanity in this painting; you can see the marks of age, the old man he is becoming. No paint-splattered clothing or easel intersecting the canvas; no painful landmarks to his trade. He is just another subject to be examined.
We have to do something with these paintings, Mab. Even if it is to burn them.
Daniel
30th November
The Studio
Dear Mab –
The first thing I noticed was that a handful of grape hyacinths had joined the red tulips in the vase on the mantelpiece. More fresh-cut flowers. I never usually notice flowers, but they’ve been invading our house in various forms over the past few months, everything from stargazer lilies to dead nettles in a jam jar. Maggie has dodged any questions about them, but I suppose I just assumed it was her bringing them in. They never lasted long enough to wither; their water was always clean and fresh. Who wouldn’t think that was Maggie?
Tatty didn’t react any differently, just shook her ragged coat as I unhooked the lead and did her usual stumbling run towards Dad’s chair.
‘Hello, Daniel.’
It was Sarah. I didn’t recognise her. How ridiculous is that? Even after staring at her portraits
But he doesn’t say anything, just twists his mouth and watches the doctor talk. I notice how dirty Dad’s glasses are, and the stains on his trousers. I should have dressed him up for the doctor. I should be doing a better job. If I do a better job, maybe when the time comes he’ll forgive me for whatever it was I did so wrong.
Daniel
28th November
The Studio
Dear Mab –
I’ve been digging into the attic for days now and I finally reached your bed. Maggie was right, it was packed into pieces, and piled on top of it were canvases. New paintings. I’m not talking about a few pieces here, Mab. There are over twenty – and that’s not counting the sketches. The weirdest thing is: they are all portraits. They’re obviously Dad’s work, but I’ve never seen them before. Do you know anything about them?
Whoever stored them here couldn’t have cared much about the condition they would be found in. They’ve been piled face to face, so the oils have to be peeled free of each other, leaving eyes and ears and lip smears on the faceof their partner. Some I’m too scared to touch, they’re so bound together and dried into place.
There are three subjects: me, Sarah, and Dad himself. When could he have painted these? Oh, why do I ask you that question, when we both know when he must have done it?
But, they’re good, Mab. Really good. I think they must be some of his best work. And they are so different from the Nudes series. It’s not just that they’re portraits; the quality of brushwork and the insight is exquisite. They are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. But they are definitely Dad’s.
It was right at the bottom of the pile that I found the self-portraits. I have one propped in front of me while I write. He must have used several mirrors, because he doesn’t meet the eye. (In fact, thinking about it, most of the subjects are looking away into the far corners of the paintings… that old life model trick about never meeting the artist’s eye.) I know how you feel about self-portraits, but there’s none of that strained intensity you hate so much. He just looks as if he’s sitting there thinking about something, as if he’s watching TV. There’s a cigarette in his hand rather than a brush, and his glasses show a film of grime and slight reflections of the light from the window. There’s no trace of vanity in this painting; you can see the marks of age, the old man he is becoming. No paint-splattered clothing or easel intersecting the canvas; no painful landmarks to his trade. He is just another subject to be examined.
We have to do something with these paintings, Mab. Even if it is to burn them.
Daniel
30th November
The Studio
Dear Mab –
The first thing I noticed was that a handful of grape hyacinths had joined the red tulips in the vase on the mantelpiece. More fresh-cut flowers. I never usually notice flowers, but they’ve been invading our house in various forms over the past few months, everything from stargazer lilies to dead nettles in a jam jar. Maggie has dodged any questions about them, but I suppose I just assumed it was her bringing them in. They never lasted long enough to wither; their water was always clean and fresh. Who wouldn’t think that was Maggie?
Tatty didn’t react any differently, just shook her ragged coat as I unhooked the lead and did her usual stumbling run towards Dad’s chair.
‘Hello, Daniel.’
It was Sarah. I didn’t recognise her. How ridiculous is that? Even after staring at her portraits
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