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Portrait of the Dalai Lama
Oil and Tempera Painting, The Mische Technique
1980
6,000 English Pounds
Artist's Comments:
When I received permission to be the first person ever to paint an official
portrait of the Dalai Lama, I was overjoyed until I read the letter of
permission more carefully. I was offered only 40 minutes – take it or leave it!
No one can paint a portrait in 40 minutes! I knew it would be madness to go all
the way to India and travel up the mountains to Dharamsala for a sitting of
only 40 minutes, but I decided to go anyway. I had found that strange things
happen when you take a risk, and adventures occur when you are travelling. My
friend, Mary Craig, came with me. She was writing a book on the Dalai Lama
(later to be published under the title
Kundun) She would interview His Holiness while I was painting
him. Talking to a model keeps the face alive. Several months later when the
time for my sitting drew near, we made our way to Dharamsala, and stayed at a
little Tibetan Hotel, run by the Dalai Lama’s younger brother and his wife. I
had prepared a sort of kangaroo pouch with all my painting materials in
it – ready for action – I didn’t want to waste a minute of my
precious sitting. At last a jeep came to take us to the sitting, and we
clambered out when it stopped in front of the gate to the residence. I waddled
forward, impeded by my kangaroo pouch which contained oil paints, painting
rags, turpentine and medium. In addition I clutched a plastic bag of brushes in
one hand and a palette in the other. Mary carried my gesso panel. We were
searched by the guards who looked very puzzled by my equipment, and then led up
to the Dalai Lama’s ‘Palace’ which was just a large square house with a gaily
painted border on top. Inside the waiting room was furnished with carved
furniture and thick Tibetan carpets. There were colourful Tanka paintings on
the wall and underneath them sat two very little boys each dressed in the
bright yellow and dark red robes of a monk. Beside them sat their tutors: two
wrinkled old monks who fussed over their charges like nannies. After one little
monk went in, I realised my sitting would take place after the other little
monk’s audience and I began to panic. I started to squeeze out my paints on to
the palette: even squeezing time was precious now. The little boy on the bench
watched me with interest, but his tutor looked shocked. A nervous assistant
came to put my paper palette on a carved tray, which looked more respectful.
Then Mr. Chimme, the palace official, appeared and looked at my blobs of colour
with distaste. He said bluntly, “There are many people waiting to see His
Holiness today, can you cut your visit short?”
I stared at him in consternation, “But I only have 40 minutes!” He frowned.
“Who said you have 40 minutes?” I was speechless, but Mary came to my aid.
She said, “We have a letter with us that promises her a sitting of 40
minutes and it is signed by you.”
Mr. Chimme turned to me, “Can’t you be very inspired and paint the picture
in ten minutes?”
I glared at him, “Have you ever painted a picture?”
“No,” he said, and left the room. The little boy monk was called, and I
knew it was my turn next. I tried to collect my thoughts and calm my nerves. At
last Mr. Chimme came to fetch us. He said firmly to Mary, “Will you keep the
time?” Mary nodded. We got up and prepared to be ready to offer the regulation
white scarves, which I managed with great difficulty, loaded down as I was. We
were led along a corridor and at the end of it we saw a touching scene. The
Dalai Lama was bending down, helping the little boy monk put his yellow boots
back on. The tutor led the little boy away by the hand and the Dalai Lama
followed them for a few paces, bending forward and blowing kisses. The little
boy kept looking back at him as he was being led away, his boots peeping like
canaries from under his robe. When he was out of sight, the Dalai Lama
straightened up, and came forward to greet us, his smile broadening into a grin
when he saw all my equipment hanging around me. He beckoned us into the
audience room; in the front along the whole wall was an altar, in the center of
which sat a golden statue of Buddha. On either side were ranged brightly
coloured statues of meditating bodhisattvas. In front of each were candles
flickering in red, blue or gold glass containers. In the center of the room
were comfortable sofas and chairs, which were not easy to paint from, but to my
relief I saw some straight chairs along the side wall. The Dalai Lama sat down
in the worst position from my point of view: on the sofa with his head dark
against the light. I did not know if I would have the nerve to ask him to move!
He looked up at me and smiled, ”You tell me where to sit. Treat me as a member
of your family.” Then I took courage, and fetched some chairs from the wall. I
asked him to sit where the light fell on his face, in front of him I put a
chair to serve as an easel, draped it with plastic and put my painting board on
top. I sat on a third chair in front of it, while Mary took out her tape
recorder to begin her interview, while I sat transfixed. How could I do
anything in forty minutes? By now I had probably only 39 or 38 minutes and
still I sat paralysed. Mr. Chimme sat himself behind me and I could feel his
eyes boring into my back. I pictured him wondering why I made such a fuss when
now I’m not doing anything! I had intended to do my usual method of
underpainting; I made a few dabs and stopped, realising that there is no time
for underpainting. My only chance is to paint straight on as quickly as I can.
I was in despair and only worked so as not to look a fool in front of Mr.
Chimme. I sketched outline, features and put in the planes of the flesh. It was
useless to try to do more than indicate background and figure: I had to
concentrate on the face. I saw where I had been going wrong. The angle of the
nose. I corrected it, and then realised that the eyes must go higher. I got
interested. Something was beginning to emerge. I worked in frenzied haste –
sometimes I did not hear Mary’s interview, at other times it came over clearly,
but I only hear it in my head, as if my brain were detached from my hand’s
frantic activity. Mary asked the Dalai Lama what he felt when he heard that he
had won the Nobel Prize. He said, “When I first heard that it was possible that
I had won, I was a bit excited. But I listened to the BBC world service and it
was not on the news, so I thought, “Must be mistake” and went to bed. In the
morning they came to tell me that I had won the Nobel Prize, but by that time,
too late, excitement over.”
“But didn’t you enjoy the ceremony?” Mary exclaimed.
He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “When went to Sweden, met many people,
made good friends. Only trouble was always get up very early – four o’clock, so
very tired at night. The Nobel Prize dinner went on until 11.30! Hopeless!” he
said, shaking his head, “Half dead!” The position of his head kept altering as
he talked. It was like trying to hit a moving target. At last his head came to
rest in the right position and I could really work.
“You have five more minutes,” said Mary. It was like an arrow, shooting
down a bird. There was no chance now. I took some photographs, but I knew it
would not be the same. I started gathering up my paints. My usual luck, that I
had been counting on, had failed me. His Holiness asked to see the painting. He
looked at it carefully and suggested that the left eye might be too big.
“I know, Your Holiness,” I said, almost crying, “but there is no time to
fix it now.” He turned to Mr. Chimme, who was standing like a sentry, ready to
usher us out of the room, and spoke to him in Tibetan. Mr. Chimme left the room
looking annoyed. Then the Dalai Lama motioned to me to stop packing up my
paints.
“I was just wondering…” he said, and told me he had sent Mr. Chimme to ask
the next people due to have an audience, if they minded if I staying and
painted His Holiness at the same time. Relief flooded over me. I felt like a
condemned man reprieved. As I spread my paints out I heard Mary go and sit at
the back of the room. At last I could relax, no one was watching me paint! As I
worked I took it all in, the people coming from all over the world – to many
this was the high point of their lives. As one American couple left I glanced
up at the Dalai Lama and got a shock. His face looked as though a light had
been switched off, he was completely inward, his face like a mask. Then, as the
next visitors arrived, His Holiness looked up, ready to greet them, seeming
refreshed and renewed from some inner source. These visitors were an Indian
couple with a young Swiss schoolgirl, her hair in blonde plaits. She spoke
earnestly to His Holiness. She said her father was a rich sports manufacturer,
and she had been spoiled all her life. But then she had heard of the terrible
fate of the Tibetans, and the struggle of the Dalai Lama to help his people,
and she wanted to do something for him. One day she saw a photograph of his
riding an inferior exercise bicycle, and this gave her an idea. Her had asked
her father to help , and had brought, all the way from Switzerland, the finest
exercise bicycle that there was. As she spoke, two grinning young monks brought
in a large white exercise bicycle. The Dalai Lama’s face broke up with laughter
(I groaned inwardly, as I was fixing his eye). The girl asked if she could
photograph him on the bicycle, promising him that it would never be used for
publicity, but treasured by the family. He jumped up, and went to the gleaming
bicycle. His top robe was in the way, so he tossed it off, leaving a yellow top
and maroon skirt. He pedalled happily, grinning like a small boy, while the
girl took a picture. Then she got up to say goodbye, and asked, “Did you use
your old bicycle a lot?”
There was a little pause. “Sometimes,” said His Holiness. At last it was
time for me to pack up and go. I went up to him to thank him, and looking into
his eyes, I had a strange experience. I felt as though I were bathing in an
ocean of love, swimming and luxuriating in a boundless divine element. It was
as if he knew all about me – all my faults – and loved me anyway. In another
moment I had another shock. In a flash I saw that I, too had an ocean of love
inside me, but something – a thin shadowy self –was barring the way and
preventing me from expressing it. And then in another blinding flash I saw a
great vision: I saw that everyone in the world had an ocean of love inside that
was struggling to be expressed!
“It’s all the same!” I cried out to the Dalai Lama, hardly knowing what I
said. He laughed and nodded, looking as pleased as if I were a child who had
got a sum right. Mary came forward and I finished packing up my things. It was
time to say goodbye. I stretched out my hand to shake his in farewell, but
secretly I longed to give him a kiss on the cheek, but didn’t dare. He was,
after, a God-King to his people. But just as if he was reading my mind, he
leaned his cheek forward so that I could give him the kiss. Then he opened his
arms and gave me a bear hug! It was wonderful – both human and spiritual and
strangely comforting. It became ever after, the high point of my life. Then he
gave Mary a hug and showed us round the rose garden. Then it was time to say a
final goodbye. Greedily I stepped forward, hoping for another hug, but was
stopped in my tracks with a shock I was never to forget. The Dalai Lama’s eyes
were smiling down at me still, but they were as distant as the twinkling stars,
three galaxies away. I wouldn’t have dared to touch him.
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