I Am Being Painted Again

I am being painted again. Presumably they hope that on canvas I will behave better than I do in life.

Serious people, brushes, an easel, inspiration. They say: “We need to capture your inner self.” I say: “Capture the outer one first, so that I can at least recognise myself.” I keep still and pose. They squint and sweep the brush about. Then they look, and are pleased. I look too, and think: if that is me, then who is it that walks about the streets?

In the old days they simply photographed one: quickly, with no pretensions to eternity. Now it is a portrait, oil, canvas. I go on trying not to blink, while the artists try to find the light, the meaning, the epoch.

In my stories I am showing my portrait, which is on sale at Art Basel in Paris. With a cat. In pyjamas. On a carpet, so they did find something Oriental after all.

In Moscow, I am told, a second portrait has been hung, at the opening of the new Masters space in Moscow. I thought: quite right. One is for admiring, the other for comparing, in case it turned out a likeness.

Still, it is good when someone, at least, is working on your image.