I returned home from work yesterday to find a hand-delivered letter waiting for me. It was from the guy who ran the art class I sat for on Monday: a sweet letter thanking me for being the first sitter to ‘grace’ the class and a £10 Waterstone’s voucher by way of thanks. Lovely and very unexpected.
What was also enclosed was a photograph of his portrait of me. It was good, don’t get me wrong, technically very sound and something I could only ever dream of aspiring to (I struggle to get my point over in drunken games of Pictionary). I looked at it – a pencil drawing of a man with his eyes closed (I was reading when I sat so no one managed to capture me with my eyes open). For a moment of terror, I did wonder if that was what I really looked like.
I showed Mr P who hooted that it looked like ‘a cross between Jesus Christ and Bobby Gillespie’ and assured me that no, that is not what I look like in real life, or indeed, when I’m reading or sitting very, very still. The odd thing is, I have often thought that I do look like Bobby Gillespie (not Jesus so much). When I paid a trip to a crappy hairdressers in the village and they straightened my hair so much that it just looked lank, I’ve felt like Bobby Gillespie and even used him as a comparison to my free-of-any-kind-of-volume-whatsoever locks. I also have long, thin arms like him. Just dress me in a hot pink suit and hand me a tambourine and I’m sure I could pass for the Scottish showman.
Mr P suggested I write back to the art guy, thanking him for my voucher and adding that as a big fan of Primal Scream, the picture will make a welcome addition to my mantelpiece.
If you are ever thinking of sitting for an amateur art class, be warned, you need a hell of a thick son and, preferably, a penchant for Primal Scream or Christianity.