I began my studies as an art student in September 1947 at the National College of Art. In those times a student had to undergo two years in what was called preliminary school, followed by a three-year diploma course. On completion, a diplomat was entitled to a free year of post-graduate studies. Six years hard work, similar to Orpen's time.
There was a very large area in the college divided by movable partitions into three large studio/ classrooms known as the gallery. It was hijacked each year by the Royal Hibernian Academy for their annual exhibition. The students had free and ready access to the exhibition and while viewing the work, it became obvious to me that the only decent commissions available to artists were in portraiture. This particular discipline was cornered by a handful of artists such as Sean O'Sullivan, Leo Whelan and George Collie. Others got the occasional commission but it was a closely and jealously guarded club.
The only entry into this game was to paint some well-known person which might be seen by prospective patrons. When I was in my second year I was determined to get some of this action. My immediate problem was finding a well-known person who would sit for a mere second year student. I had applied for a scholarship and one of the many required works was a painting of an interior. I decided to paint a large watercolour of the hall in our house at 4 Avoca Terrace in Blackrock. Behind the arch and curtain was a door which led into a large room known as the dining room. It was only used on Christmas day as a dining room and for the rest of the year it was my studio and my brother Brian's study. Every Sunday he would hammer out his Cruiskeen Lawn columns for The Irish Times for the week ahead. It occurred to me that the ideal subject for my sample portrait was right there in my own studio. I found it difficult to approach him to ask if he would sit for me - after all, his very close friend was Sean O'Sullivan who lived down the road in Avoca Avenue, a few hundred yards from our home. When I did summon up the courage he would not hear of it, and that seemed the end of my project. It dawned on me, however, that he was in fact sitting or posing there continuously as a matter of course. Could I work on the portrait without his knowing?
In fact he was an ideal sitter because his work demanded total concentration in order to type six of his columns in one afternoon and he had great powers of concentration. He used to always sit with his ankles crossed and tucked underneath his chair. He would lean back and study some papers for a while smoking his Churchman cigarettes, then he would pull the chair closer to the table and the hammering would start, interspersed with the tinkle of the typewriter warning bell at the end of a line.
I could not simply put a four by three foot canvas on my easel and just start to paint - he would see it at some stage - so I made small studies in watercolour and pastels and during the week when he was at work I enlarged and transferred the studies to my canvas. I could only work on this intermittently as work in college demanded most of my time. However, the painting progressed slowly but steadily.
By the end of November the background - his books and his bookcase, the typewriter, the table and chair - were finished as these were of course readily available at all times. Much more detailed studies were required for his face, hands and clothes, so they were temporarily roughly blocked in. A portrait would be normally painted in reverse order, of course. The subject would normally be done first, with the other elements of the background blocked in, or alternatively the whole painting would progress overall at the same pace. There was a great element of glee and enjoyment in doing this covert work, which largely sprung from the secrecy and challenge it demanded. Then it happened.
Disaster struck. In December he got married, which meant that he never worked in the studio-cumwriter's study. My model had vanished. I was left with a painting with a highly finished background and foreground but with an unfinished, ghostlike figure on a chair. It looked more like a new departure in Surrealism or a photograph wherein the person had moved while the shot was being taken, leaving a blurred, indecipherable image.
I was crestfallen. I put it aside and, as the seanachai would say, things rested so.
In 1954 the family home was sold and the remaining inmates, including me, had to find alternative accommodation. I was to have moved into a bungalow with my two elder brothers Gearoid and Ciaran, now deceased. I had one look at this bungalow and decided that it would not do for me. I needed large, spacious rooms for my studio. As it happened, my friend Eddie Delaney, the sculptor, had a large flat at 33 Belgrave Square in Monkstown and he was about to leave for Germany. I resided there until 1959. This was one of two buildings which was later to become the headquarters of Comhaltas Ceoltoiri Eireann.
In 1956, Brian arrived at 33 Belgrave Square and stayed with me for some weeks. His wife was in hospital and he did not care to live alone. As he explained: "You can't buy half an egg."
I told him that I was doing a lot of painting and that perhaps he would pose for me? He did not mind in the least. "I'm game ball," he said. Everything had, by then, changed. Fortunately I had kept the original canvas. Within a few days I had completed the portrait, all that remained was to paint in the newspaper in his pocket. He was astonished when I swung my easel around and let him see the finished work. He was astonished because he thought the painting had been begun from scratch, only a few days previously. He could not understand how I could have painted the bookcase, his chair and all the details from the room in Blackrock. Without batting an eyelid I told him I had a great photographic memory and uncanny powers of recall.
Later that evening over a few jars in Goggins I told him how his portrait had come about. He was highly amused and then he said to me: "Why in the name of Jaysus paint me? You should be painting fat bishops and wealthy businessmen."
Two paintings were done at the time - the original canvas was acquired last year by Boston College. The second, also oil on canvas, remains in Ireland.
This is an extract from Micheal O Nuallain's forthcoming two-part biography. The first part will be published by Creative Arts International later this year.