The Portrait

Pears has written at least two different kinds of novel. There is his Jonathan Argyll series of art history murder mysteries, straightforward, well written but easy-reading genre novels; and there are his heavier, more complex and more unusual historical novels, the bestselling The Instance of the Fingerpost and The Dream of Scipio, which weave together different narrators and/or different timescales.

The Portrait falls somewhere between the two. It draws on Pears' knowledge of the world of art like the Argyll books, but in a very different way. In one sense it is not a complex book - there is only one narrator. But the narrative takes the unusual form of a monologue which is sustained throughout the novel's 200 or so pages - the show more one-sided conversation which the artist Henry McAlpine inflicts upon his captive audience, his former friend and art critic William Nasmyth, while painting his portrait.

The narrative device takes a little while to get used to, but the emerging picture of the relationship between artist and critic in the early years of the 20th century is well drawn. Pears, in the voice of McAlpine, describes extremely effectively both the joys (a beautifully evoked 'epiphany moment' of creation) and struggles of the creative process. The theme of portraiture, and the choice of whether to paint what the sitter wants to see or attempt to paint the truth as seen by the painter, is an interesting commentary on the unfolding story, as layers are stripped away and the truth (or one perspective on it) begins to emerge.

Little clues early on, and carefully chosen turns of phrase throughout, soon help to build the suspense, the realisation that something else might be going on besides old friends catching up during the painting of a portrait. The inevitable outcome is fairly soon obvious - this is not a fault of the story-telling, as this is not a who-dunnit-style murder mystery but an exploration of the psychology of revenge and self-justification.

A compelling, slightly disturbing read that matches Pears' longer books in seriousness of theme. show less

Henry MacAlpine is a Scottish painter living in self-imposed exile on a small island off the Brittany coast. An old friend, Willian Nasmyth, a famous art critic, arrives one day to sit for a portrait. As the two men reminisce, it becomes clear that this isn’t going to be an ordinary sitting …

Written as a monologue from start to finish, this is a bold literary experiment that doesn’t always ring true, and several large passages read as if put there for the benefit of the reader (which they are, of course), and not the sitter, as they are far too polished and a little too stilted, though MacAlpine has had a lot of time to prepare his speech. Where the experiment does succeed, however, is that the reader is able to build up an image show more of Nasmyth’s character as it is reflected in MacAlpine’s monologue, and which holds the key to the events depicted in the book; whether it is all completely accurate is another matter (the device of the unreliable narrator), though I did get the impression that MacAlpine is honest – almost unflinchingly so, in places – and Nasmyth’s few reactions the reader is able to discern through the painter’s words seem to confirm that impression. The relationship between the two, although superficially friendly, is strained from the outset, and the tension mounts as the reason behind Nasmyth’s appearance on the island becomes clearer. I was reminded of Marc Anthony’s famous speech in Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar, when he repeats to great effect that Brutus is an honourable man, yet in effect maintains the opposite; here MacAlpine calls Nasmyth ‘old friend’, when it is obvious that there is barely suppressed hostility between the two, certainly on MacAlpine’s part. The painter has devised a perfect instrument of torture for his sitter, as he is forced to sit still and listen to the painter’s reminiscences (and he does ramble on for quite some time), and it soon becomes clear that a psychological game of cat and mouse is being played out which is really quite chilling, though a revelation towards the end strikes a false note (why is it that a woman cannot simply reject a man?), in my opinion calling some of MacAlpine’s motivations into question. The entire book is painted (forgive the pun!) in almost lyrical prose that is able to pronounce the profoundest truths in the simplest words, and I have marked many such passages in the book for future reference and reflection, something I’ve never done before.

I can see why opinions are divided over this book, but I thought it a very rewarding and thought-provoking reading experience. show less

The sense of being inside the artist's head was very effective. Reliving his whole life through his memories and musings was fascinating. Slowly understanding the evolving relationship with his sitter was handled in a very gripping and ultimately menacing way. The relationships with the female characters in the story were all quite troubling. They are portrayed as suspicious and untrustworthy even through the unwilling attraction to them - they really seem to be perceived as largely objects. When they turn out to have strengths, talents, desires, fears and passions beyond the artist's comprehension, they become almost evil - quite disturbing.

An artist living on an isolated island off the coast of Brittany just before WWI is visited by an eminent art critic, who used to be his mentor and now wants his portrait painted.

The whole book consists of a series of monologues from the artist to the sitter while he's painting, exploring what has brought them that point. Although the ending is fairly predictable early on it is only in the last 30 pages or so (out of 210) that we learn the motivation behind it. Something of a tour de force.

I guess I'm on a bit of an Iain Pears kick lately; it's just a week and a half since I reviewed Giotto's Hand, and now I've finished his most recent work, The Portrait. A vastly different animal, this book; hardly seems possible that the same hand could write such starkly contrasting narratives. Told entirely in monologue form (a portraitist speaking to his muted subject as he works) The Portrait is a deliciously creepy and nicely crafted tale of long-planned retribution for past transgressions. It is also a neat exposition of the artists' relationship with those who make their living being critical of others' creations.

While the monologue style is disconcerting at first (largely I suspect because we're unused to reading it) it didn't show more take long for it to become more gripping than annoying; it certainly pulled me in. While I wanted to read quickly to find out what would happen (though I confess I had the ending predicted well before the halfway mark), I also wanted to take it slowly and read Pears' elegant prose. He's captured human attitudes and frailties expertly here. I recommend this one.

http://philobiblos.blogspot.com/2007/02/book-review-portrait.html show less

My advice to prospective readers: don't stop reading this book until the end. You may begin reading it, say "huh?" and want to put it down. But don't. The whole thing unravels the further you go and it is worth the wait.

The entire book is structured as a monologue on the part of the narrator, Henry MacAlpine. MacAlpine is a very much sought-after artist in early 1900s London; his work is mostly portraiture, well, at least the work that provides his living. His subject, visiting MacAlpine in his current home on a small island off the Brittany coast of France, is one William Naysmith, a highly-influential art critic who used to be one of MacAlpine's best friends. MacAlpine is now in a state of self-exile on this small island, but the show more reader does not find out why until the end. He has summoned Naysmith to his island to paint his portrait, and it is during the course of the sitting that the monologue occurs. As the sitting and the monologue go on, the readers learns about the history of these two individuals from MacAlpine's beginning as an artist through his self-imposed exile.

Trust me on this one. The book is extremely well written, and don't read it with getting to the end in mind. Enjoy the ride there...that's the crux of this book and it makes for a very unique reading experience. Recommended. show less

There is a moment in Iain Pears "The Portrait" when you realize what is going to happen. In the hands of a lesser writer, this would have ruined the rest of the novel. But in Pears hands, it doesn't matter. You know what is going to happen, and the two characters know what is going to happen. Yet none of us can look away. "The Portrait" is a monologue. An artist is painting the portrait of a critic who is an old friend. The entire novel is the one sided conversation as the painting progresses, told from the mind of the artist. He lays bare, over the course of those conversations, their entire friendship. He also exposes both the critic's and the artist's own failings and demons. As I said, all of us know what is eventually going to show more happen. Yet Pears' prose is such that we hurtle towards the conclusion, engrossed, waiting anxiously to see what finally occurs, like a voyeuristic ghost. Unable to change the outcome, yet silently inside not wanting to. This was my first exposure to Iain Pears, but it won't be my last. show less