The Portrait by Iain M. Pears

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I retreated, packed up, came here; foreswore the knighthood, the obituary in The Times, the commemorative retrospective at the Royal Academy. I did not wish others to destroy my reputation, so I did it myself, before they could strike me down. At least I would deprive them of the pleasure. Cowardice, you may have thought at the time. I prefer to think of it as being acute. What soldier stands and waits to be overcome by a superior force? Better to get out of the way. And bide my time. My renunciation was tactical, not mystical.

Think of all those acres of canvas we churned out when we came back from Paris, all that semi-digested Impressionism. We got rid of the wistful peasants and the studies of girls knitting, true enough; but we replaced them with unending landscapes painted in muted greens and browns. Thousands of them. Didn’t really matter if it was Cumbria or Gloucestershire or Brittany, they all looked pretty much the same. I don’t know why English painters love brown so much. It’s not as if it is so much cheaper than any other colour.

I do not yearn for obliteration; my opinion of my work is too high for that. True, the wait will be long, but I am not concerned with my reputation during my life. Even had I achieved immense fame, I knew it would evaporate soon enough. I am after a bigger prize than that. Far bigger. You think I am deranged, that the years of loneliness and isolation have finally tipped me over into an insane self-importance. Ah, but you will see, when I have finished this painting. You will see. I suppose I’d better tell you my secret; you’ll find it out on your own, and I don’t want that smirk of yours to appear without being summoned by me.