The Portrait, by Iain Pears

The Portrait
Iain Pears

Well now this was an entertaining little book! And I don't mean this in a belittling way; The Portrait takes only a sitting or two to read, and is highly entertaining.

I have to say that I liked this book a lot better than Pears' Instance of the Fingerpost, which I found much too long and ruined by its dumb and unbelievable conclusion. In contrast, The Portrait was short, believable, and smart. Can't beat it! The story is told via a dramatic monologue; an artist speaks to his critic after a long absence. It's clear something bad is going to happen. Animosity drips from each page as the artist paints his critic's portrait.

Unfortunately, the idea that something bad will eventually happen is given to the reader long before one opens the book, so long as one is observant enough to read the cover comments. I'm giving nothing away here. To be fair, there is enough not-too-subtle foreshadowing along the way that will guide the reader to this same conclusion. (Ironic that the learned critic would miss these clues.) Fortunately, there were a few surprises that were not indicated by either the cover comments or the un-subtle foreshadowing, so I wasn't entirely let down.

The book also raises some interesting questions about the interplay between art and criticism. Does the artist make necessary the critic? Or the other way around? I'd like to think both artist and critic are necessary to one another, a symbiotic relationship of sorts. Pears, however, seems to see the critic as a parasite that feeds off the labors of the artist. Undeniably the critic has great powers of influence. Does that mean the critic deems what is True Art while the dumb masses follow blindly? Perhaps, if he uses his powers of discernment correctly. He might, however, toy with the public, as the famous Ellsworth Toohey did in Rand's The Fountainhead. In this case, the critic might elevate trash and watch the masses lap it up, believing trash to be True Art. Perhaps, as Pears also seems to assert, True Art is so compelling, so disturbing, that it cannot even be shown to either critic or audience, but exists solely for the artist himself? Pears offers no explanations to these questions, although his sympathies surely lie with artists. In fact, one is almost lead to wonder if Pears himself hasn't been burned by a critic's acid pen one too many times. He seems to be drawing from personal experience. Hopefully, not too personal.

In a nutshell: The Portrait is highly entertaining, short novel even if it doesn't shake the ground a reader walks on. Dramatic monologues are not often used in novels, and it was refreshing to see one here. Not the best book I've ever read (it was rather cold for that, as was necessary), but it did give me a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars