Manual of Painting and Calligraphy by José Saramago Read Free Book Online

I should like him to sit. I sensed a hint of tension. Could Olga the secretary have told him about my magical way of playing with windows and lights in the boardroom? Could he be such an imbecile as to allow himself to be intimidated by my antics, especially when described by a third party? Or was he simply trying to keep his distance, to show the substantial difference between his time and mine? Could he be trying to emphasize that a company director and artist-cum-painter have nothing in common, other than the face one lends X by the hour (with the one clear distinction that in this case the one doing the lending is paying for what he lends)?
    I pointed out the large upright chair used on these occasions, which I take the trouble to modify from portrait to portrait so that at least the chairs are not repeated, for I am quite sure that my clients would not tolerate any such repetition. They would sooner accept looking like each other than seeing themselves seated in the same chair. Uncertain, perhaps suspecting that he was sitting down far too quickly, S. settled into the chair and waited. He crossed one leg, a gesture with which I am all too familiar, and then uncrossed it at once. I told him to relax and not to worry about striking a pose. For the moment, I simply wanted to make a few quick sketches in charcoal in order to familiarize myself with his face, the movements of his eyes, the twitching of his nostrils, the curves of his mouth, the weight of his chin. I prefer not to talk while I am working, but I have to adjust myself to the client who is paying, become almost like putty in his hands while painting his portrait. Therefore I force myself to speak but rarely succeed in sounding natural. I refuse to discuss the weather and try to avoid asking questions that are indiscreet, although I have sometimes asked them inadvertently, and with experience I have learned to open these conversations on the same note, tactfully inquiring if this is the first portrait. I do not insist, even less so if they answer, No, this is not the first portrait. One might easily lapse into or willfully indulge in disparaging remarks whereby, once the moment of mutual agreement had (perhaps) passed, I would naturally end up betraying myself in public as a disloyal fellow artist. In the case of S. I knew I was risking nothing. Had he already had his portrait painted, Olga the secretary would certainly have told me, either to annoy or to flatter me. Even without this reassurance, there was no risk. S. was not the type of man who seeks the trite satisfaction of a portrait in oils. Sporting a nice, even tan, which bore no resemblance to the wretched appearance of the man in the street whose skin begins to peel after being exposed to the first rays of the sun, S. overcame his initial nervousness now that I had assumed my role as craftsman and started tracing on paper what his features dictated. I do not believe I thought about this at the time. But on reflection (I now have to reflect on everything before giving my hand a free rein to write without interruption) I discover the reasons for S.’s sudden complacency: our relationship had defined itself after some initial uncertainty and the world had been restored to order. He did not answer my question but raised another, to give the impression that he was sufficiently interested, in the precise terms of a paternalism he had exercised on other occasions: Had I been painting for long? As far back as I can remember, I replied. I don’t believe I have ever done anything else, I added. Of course it was a lie, but it is an interesting phrase which flatters the person saying it and pleases the person who is listening. It can be a pretext for engaging in a lively discussion about the controversial issue of vocations (Is one born an artist or does one become an artist? Is art an ineffable mystery or a question of rigorous training? Are the revolutionaries of art truly mad? Did Van Gogh really cut off his