was head-scratching and consternation. There was excitement. I felt the shift of my trajectory.
What the crowd saw that night was a depiction of an ordinary station platform. The grey-rendered steam of a locomotive swelled from the lower aspect of the canvas. In parts, I had thinned the
whorls of paint to near translucence; in others, it cloyed like molasses, in level spots of oil and glaze that almost shone. Amidst the curls of smoke was a rolling horde of men in rags and
bedraggled women holding babies. They were clambering from the west side of the platform, stumbling over each other in a tumult, falling headlong. And in the calm space to the east, where the grey
mist was dispersing, a figure stood in a baggy pinstriped suit, his body turned, his face unseen, but slightly peering backwards. His right hand was stigmatised and held a crown of thorns. He was
barefoot and his tawny hair was greased and combed. A trail of oats was spilling from the briefcase in his other hand. A Bible rested in his top pocket. Beyond him were sunlit pastures fenced off
with barbed wire; ships already leaving port; the distant flatline of the sea. I called it
Deputation.
The external assessor was so insulted by the picture that he did not deem it worthy of a passing grade. I had sensed that the mural would provoke strong opinions, but I did not expect that it
would rouse such ill feeling that the School would deny my graduation. Whilst I was painting
Deputation
, I daydreamed of installing it at Central Station, imagining the railway manager
being invited to the show, falling in love with it. I had taken the trouble of designing it so the canvas could be detached from its stretcher frames and affixed to the brickwork with lead paste,
as many of the great muralists in America had been known to do. I had thought—vainly hoped—that it would help me acquire more commissions. Instead, the School gave me two options:
repeat the fourth year, or leave without a diploma. I preferred the idea of packing sewing-machine needles with my mother.
At the end of term, as the show was being pulled down, I went in to the studio to collect my things. Henry Holden called me to his office. I sat on his paint-smattered banquette while he
rummaged the papers on his desk. There was a reek of whisky about him. ‘I’ve spoken again with the School governors,’ he said. ‘I wish I could say they’d changed their
minds.’
‘I’m starting to think it’s for the best.’
He shook his head. ‘Rubbish. You submitted a wonderful painting, and I’m embarrassed those cowards aren’t supporting it. When you go off and make your fortune as a painter,
they’re all going to look rather silly.
Now
—’ He lifted up a folder and gave it a cursory glance before tossing it aside. ‘You might not have seen this in the
newspapers, or heard about it on the wireless,
but
—ah, here we are.’ He unfolded what looked like a grocer’s receipt, skim-reading it. ‘There’s a new
travelling fellowship you can apply for.’
‘I really don’t think I’ll be—’
‘Shssh. Listen. This is
good
news.’ He paused, swallowing drily, and I realised that he was very drunk indeed. ‘Now, I should warn you, the endowment is not much, but
it’s been decided, and the committee chairman—namely
me
—will be most upset if you don’t accept. In fact, he insists that you do. Here.’ He offered me the
grocer’s receipt. A name was scrawled on the back in pencil—Jim Culvers—with a number and an address. ‘An old student of mine in London is looking for an assistant. If he
doesn’t pay you well enough, give me a ring and I’ll lean on him. It’s not the same as a diploma, or even a proper fellowship, I know—but, anyway, those are his
details.’
I felt as though I should kiss him. ‘You don’t have to do this for me, Henry.’
‘I’m aware.’
‘I don’t think I really deserve it.’
‘Then give it back, I’ll tear it up for you.’ He
What the crowd saw that night was a depiction of an ordinary station platform. The grey-rendered steam of a locomotive swelled from the lower aspect of the canvas. In parts, I had thinned the
whorls of paint to near translucence; in others, it cloyed like molasses, in level spots of oil and glaze that almost shone. Amidst the curls of smoke was a rolling horde of men in rags and
bedraggled women holding babies. They were clambering from the west side of the platform, stumbling over each other in a tumult, falling headlong. And in the calm space to the east, where the grey
mist was dispersing, a figure stood in a baggy pinstriped suit, his body turned, his face unseen, but slightly peering backwards. His right hand was stigmatised and held a crown of thorns. He was
barefoot and his tawny hair was greased and combed. A trail of oats was spilling from the briefcase in his other hand. A Bible rested in his top pocket. Beyond him were sunlit pastures fenced off
with barbed wire; ships already leaving port; the distant flatline of the sea. I called it
Deputation.
The external assessor was so insulted by the picture that he did not deem it worthy of a passing grade. I had sensed that the mural would provoke strong opinions, but I did not expect that it
would rouse such ill feeling that the School would deny my graduation. Whilst I was painting
Deputation
, I daydreamed of installing it at Central Station, imagining the railway manager
being invited to the show, falling in love with it. I had taken the trouble of designing it so the canvas could be detached from its stretcher frames and affixed to the brickwork with lead paste,
as many of the great muralists in America had been known to do. I had thought—vainly hoped—that it would help me acquire more commissions. Instead, the School gave me two options:
repeat the fourth year, or leave without a diploma. I preferred the idea of packing sewing-machine needles with my mother.
At the end of term, as the show was being pulled down, I went in to the studio to collect my things. Henry Holden called me to his office. I sat on his paint-smattered banquette while he
rummaged the papers on his desk. There was a reek of whisky about him. ‘I’ve spoken again with the School governors,’ he said. ‘I wish I could say they’d changed their
minds.’
‘I’m starting to think it’s for the best.’
He shook his head. ‘Rubbish. You submitted a wonderful painting, and I’m embarrassed those cowards aren’t supporting it. When you go off and make your fortune as a painter,
they’re all going to look rather silly.
Now
—’ He lifted up a folder and gave it a cursory glance before tossing it aside. ‘You might not have seen this in the
newspapers, or heard about it on the wireless,
but
—ah, here we are.’ He unfolded what looked like a grocer’s receipt, skim-reading it. ‘There’s a new
travelling fellowship you can apply for.’
‘I really don’t think I’ll be—’
‘Shssh. Listen. This is
good
news.’ He paused, swallowing drily, and I realised that he was very drunk indeed. ‘Now, I should warn you, the endowment is not much, but
it’s been decided, and the committee chairman—namely
me
—will be most upset if you don’t accept. In fact, he insists that you do. Here.’ He offered me the
grocer’s receipt. A name was scrawled on the back in pencil—Jim Culvers—with a number and an address. ‘An old student of mine in London is looking for an assistant. If he
doesn’t pay you well enough, give me a ring and I’ll lean on him. It’s not the same as a diploma, or even a proper fellowship, I know—but, anyway, those are his
details.’
I felt as though I should kiss him. ‘You don’t have to do this for me, Henry.’
‘I’m aware.’
‘I don’t think I really deserve it.’
‘Then give it back, I’ll tear it up for you.’ He
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