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| The route to art | The route to art |
| (about 2 hours later) | |
| Interior at Paddington, Lucian Freud, 1951. Courtesy of the Walker Art Gallery | Interior at Paddington, Lucian Freud, 1951. Courtesy of the Walker Art Gallery |
| A chance discovery with an intriguing painting has the potential to change you, says Laurie Taylor. | A chance discovery with an intriguing painting has the potential to change you, says Laurie Taylor. |
| Apart from the monthly changing bathing belles on the local garage calendar which hung from a cupboard knob in the kitchen, there was only one other picture in my childhood home. | Apart from the monthly changing bathing belles on the local garage calendar which hung from a cupboard knob in the kitchen, there was only one other picture in my childhood home. |
| Unlike the calendar, this picture was afforded a special place of honour. It hung proudly above the china cabinet in the middle of the back wall of our rarely used, but regularly swept and dusted, front room. In this position it could readily catch the attention of the very few visitors who were considered of sufficient status to use the room. | Unlike the calendar, this picture was afforded a special place of honour. It hung proudly above the china cabinet in the middle of the back wall of our rarely used, but regularly swept and dusted, front room. In this position it could readily catch the attention of the very few visitors who were considered of sufficient status to use the room. |
| Bluebell Wood, my mother would say when she saw them glancing in the right direction. "You can see the path going through the wood." "Ah yes," they'd say. "Lovely". | Bluebell Wood, my mother would say when she saw them glancing in the right direction. "You can see the path going through the wood." "Ah yes," they'd say. "Lovely". |
| It was, I'm slightly ashamed to say, that damned path through the wood which captured my own attention. In the foreground of the picture it was a broad yellow sandy track, but as it wound its way through the bluebells, it became thinner and thinner, until it was only a speck of ochre amidst the packed trees on the horizon. | It was, I'm slightly ashamed to say, that damned path through the wood which captured my own attention. In the foreground of the picture it was a broad yellow sandy track, but as it wound its way through the bluebells, it became thinner and thinner, until it was only a speck of ochre amidst the packed trees on the horizon. |
| FIND OUT MORE Hear Laurie Taylor's Thinking Allowed on Radio 4 at 1600 on Wednesdays or 0030 on MondaysOr download the podcast here | FIND OUT MORE Hear Laurie Taylor's Thinking Allowed on Radio 4 at 1600 on Wednesdays or 0030 on MondaysOr download the podcast here |
| Because it was the only art in the house, the only self-consciously framed artwork I ever saw as I grew up, it came to stand for all artistic representations. | Because it was the only art in the house, the only self-consciously framed artwork I ever saw as I grew up, it came to stand for all artistic representations. |
| Art, I assumed, was largely about nature and landscapes and perspectives. Painters were of course permitted to escape from the clutch of bluebells and try their hand at daffodils and roses and sunflowers. | |
| They might even choose to place their flowers in gardens or meadows rather than woods with receding paths, but on the whole that should be the limit of their ambition. | They might even choose to place their flowers in gardens or meadows rather than woods with receding paths, but on the whole that should be the limit of their ambition. |
| It was this pre-conception which made my first teenage visit to the Walker Art Gallery so disconcerting. I'd only wandered into the place because it was in the same Liverpool street as the Picton Hall where I regularly attended traditional jazz evenings. | It was this pre-conception which made my first teenage visit to the Walker Art Gallery so disconcerting. I'd only wandered into the place because it was in the same Liverpool street as the Picton Hall where I regularly attended traditional jazz evenings. |
| I reasoned that if it was so close to a venue where I had such good times, then it might offer some pleasures of its own. | I reasoned that if it was so close to a venue where I had such good times, then it might offer some pleasures of its own. |
| Gallery fear | Gallery fear |
| I've heard that the present day Walker Gallery is a well-organised, friendly place, but back then it was about as welcoming as a Grand Masonic lodge. | I've heard that the present day Walker Gallery is a well-organised, friendly place, but back then it was about as welcoming as a Grand Masonic lodge. |
| Everything conspired to give the casual visitor the sense that they were only being allowed to view the works of art on sufferance. | Everything conspired to give the casual visitor the sense that they were only being allowed to view the works of art on sufferance. |
| Several years later, when I learned about Lucien Freud's eminence, I still somehow believed that I'd been the first to discover him | Several years later, when I learned about Lucien Freud's eminence, I still somehow believed that I'd been the first to discover him |
| In the absence of any fellow visitors, I didn't know how or where or how long to look. Was I getting it wrong? | In the absence of any fellow visitors, I didn't know how or where or how long to look. Was I getting it wrong? |
| Would I be seized by the uniformed attendant at the end of the room and marched outside for committing some error of judgement - getting too close to a painting, spending too little time in front of it, skipping past an acknowledged masterpiece? | Would I be seized by the uniformed attendant at the end of the room and marched outside for committing some error of judgement - getting too close to a painting, spending too little time in front of it, skipping past an acknowledged masterpiece? |
| And where were the bluebells and the woods? Where was nature? Where was beauty? Where was perspective? | And where were the bluebells and the woods? Where was nature? Where was beauty? Where was perspective? |
| It was then that I rounded a corner and saw on the wall a picture that shocked me out of all such expectations. For ever. It was simply called Interior, Paddington and showed a very small, scruffy-looking young man standing against a wall. | |
| He wore a V-necked pullover, an open-necked scruffy shirt, and a crumpled gabardine mac. In one of his hands was an unlit cigarette. | |
| Slightly in the foreground stood a bedraggled Yucca plant. Who was the man? What was he doing in the room? And how tall was he? Did he look so small because of the size of the plant and the wall behind him? | Slightly in the foreground stood a bedraggled Yucca plant. Who was the man? What was he doing in the room? And how tall was he? Did he look so small because of the size of the plant and the wall behind him? |
| Word of mouth | |
| I read that the artist was Lucien Freud. My mother hadn't heard of him. Neither had anyone at school. But that didn't stop me from taking friends to see "my sinister man". He was my discovery. My own piece of art. | I read that the artist was Lucien Freud. My mother hadn't heard of him. Neither had anyone at school. But that didn't stop me from taking friends to see "my sinister man". He was my discovery. My own piece of art. |
| Several years later, when I learned about Lucien Freud's eminence, I still somehow believed that I'd been the first to discover him, that he wouldn't have been so well-regarded without my personal approval and earnest recommendations. | Several years later, when I learned about Lucien Freud's eminence, I still somehow believed that I'd been the first to discover him, that he wouldn't have been so well-regarded without my personal approval and earnest recommendations. |
| Twelve years ago, or maybe more, I was standing in a Soho pub when I felt a touch on my arm. "You're Laurie Taylor aren't you?" said a voice. | Twelve years ago, or maybe more, I was standing in a Soho pub when I felt a touch on my arm. "You're Laurie Taylor aren't you?" said a voice. |
| I turned and found myself staring into the face of a small gabardine coated, scruffy middle-aged man. I recoiled. "Don't worry," he said. "It often happens. Walker Art Gallery? Lucien Freud? Yes?" | I turned and found myself staring into the face of a small gabardine coated, scruffy middle-aged man. I recoiled. "Don't worry," he said. "It often happens. Walker Art Gallery? Lucien Freud? Yes?" |
| I nodded. Searched for something to say. Found words forming in my mouth. "You know," I said, glancing down at the unlit cigarette in his left hand, "if it wasn't for you I might have had to spend all my childhood looking at a path winding through a bluebell wood." | |
| I couldn't have made any sense to him. But he smiled sympathetically. "I suppose anything's better than a bluebell wood," he said, and lit the cigarette that I'd come to know so well. | I couldn't have made any sense to him. But he smiled sympathetically. "I suppose anything's better than a bluebell wood," he said, and lit the cigarette that I'd come to know so well. |
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