The Portrait is a great example of an extended first person soliloquy. Reading it is similar to reading the script for a one-man play. The painter-narrator, over the course of several evenings, rambles to his somewhat captive and uncharacteristically mute audience, a boorish critic, on a wide range of subjects concerning art: art as history, art as fad, art as pretension, art as truth, art as money, art as religion. The phoniness of the artist, the craft of the artist: Artist as Critic, Critic as Artist. Indeed, some parts of the Portrait reads very much like Oscar Wilde's brilliant dialogues concerning art, though here depth is sacrificed to make room for plot.Our artist-narrator is a bit Salieri, and the critic (though he never speaks) could pass for Dorian Gray. It is a joy to read the artist's long monologue, and only a few times did I flinch at sour notes. Of special enjoyment was the narrator's vivid rendering of the various emotions an artist experiences when reading a bad review. No less enjoyable was the merciless indictments of criticism as superficial taste-maker.The plot's so-called revelations, however, are quite flat. It's obvious early on that the The Portrait is as inspired by My Last Duchess as it is by The Cask of Amontillado, and there are many glaring hints to the answer of every question one my have as to where the story's heading. Therefore, when I finished the book, I was not completely satisfied. I enjoyed its middle, when there was both a strong voice and interesting topics for it to talk about. But in the end I could only shrug and toss the book aside. By this point the narration had outlived its art.PSI read a large print edition discarded from the library. The type was huge and easy to read, but the cover was a hideous display of clipart and ugly fonts, ironic considering the book's content.
A few months ago I read and adored Pears's big fat science-historical mystery-type novel An Instance of the Fingerpost and adored it so much I went out and bought a better copy than the somewhat battered one I had so that Pam could read the book the way it ought to be read -- and, now I face it, so that I could have a nicer copy if ever I re-read the book myself, which is not beyond the bounds of possibility. Whatever, when I spotted The Portrait in the library the other day, there was no question but that it go home with me. It's a very much slighter book in every sense of the word -- indeed, it's more like a very, very long novella than a novel, all narrated as he paints by early-20th-century portraitist Henry MacAlpine to his subject, critic and heartless bastard William Nasmyth. Slowly, as the past history of the two men -- and more importantly of the undervalued (because female) painter Evelyn -- unfolds, we discover why MacAlpine has lured Nasmyth to this remote island off Brittany for the portrait, and what he hopes to achieve with that portrait. I'm not sure Pears quite pulls off the endeavour. At the end of the book I felt thoroughly satisfied by the last fifty pages I'd read, but the buildup to those last fifty pages had far too often seemed to drag. Had this been published as an ordinary-length novella -- say, 25-35,000 words -- rather than an (at a guess) 55,000-word shortish novel, I think it would have been artistically more successful. As it was, I had the sensation I was looking at one of a master's interesting but decidedly lesser paintings.
What do You think about The Portrait (2006)?
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 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.
—Erik
The Portrait is a historical mystery, a gripping tale of suspense and revenge, set in the early 1900s. Celebrated painter Henry MacAlpine has turned his back on London and moved to a small island off the coast of Brittany. Here, his old friend, art critic William Nasmyth, comes to visit him, ostensibly to have his portrait painted. The story is told entirely as a monologue, with MacAlpine as the narrator, rather like a one-man play. Nasmyth never speaks and his reponses and reactions are conveyed to the reader only through MacAlpine. Slowly, in between talk about the weather and art, a picture of their shared past emerges and the reader soon gets a sense of things taking a sinister turn.Very clever, very enjoyable, in an unexpected and unusual way.
—Sabina
I listened to the unabridged audio CD version of this book while driving through the miles of S NM and W TX. A short book (@230 pp), it is brought in on 5 discs. Slow starting, it builds, and by the last disc you are glad you stuck with it. The biggest problem is this is a monologue in a Scottish accent - and 5.5 hr of that is just a bit much to take! I had never read Pears before, but know his intelligent historical semi-suspense novels are very popular with literate readers. This does not exactly make me want to rush and pick up any of his other books, but I'm glad I lisnted to this. But I did drift off at times, and had to go back and catch what I had missed. Fairly interesting setting of the early 20th C/Pre-WWI English art scene. And his talk about art and how it is made is actualluy pretty insightful and interesting.I am not sure how the book reads - is that monologue style off oputting in print as well?
—Steve
