The War Years (Mr. Hall & Mr. Melly)
For several weeks after my rejection by the medical board I lived on borrowed money and, without warning them, crawled round to the houses of my friends at meal times. . .Whenever I applied for a job I was careful to explain that I was totally exempt but I was always obliquely accused of being a pacifist.
The only money I can remember earning at this time came from a Mr. Hall. Without ever having met me, he telephoned me to ask if I would allow him to paint my portrait.
I was flattered by his interest in me and charmed by his courtesy. . . His melancholy dignity, however, baffled me. I sometimes thought he would have liked to shed this but couldn't.
The only time I gave a gracious nod in the direction of culture was when surrealism came to London. . . I went to the famous exhibition in Burlington Galleries where I found myself an unwitting though not entirely unwilling exhibit. In and out of the different rooms glided a certain Mrs. Legge wearing full evening dress and carrying in her hand uncooked pork chops. With orange face and vermilion lips I weaved my way past her, clanking with amulets, but, as her face was entirely covered by a hood of roses, I could not see whether she registered fear that I might be a materialization of the surreal world or annoyance that another voluntary worker had got his rota mixed with hers. For a moment one the the dearest wishes of surrealism was fulfilled. The barriers between art and life fell down.
I got to know slightly better a writer who occasionally came and sat with us while Mr. Hall worked at my portrait. I attended a small party as this man's house. One of the guests, . . sang himself to bits. . . I enjoyed his performance a little less for fearing that he might have a stroke. Soon he was carrying on like this several times a night. It was Mr. Melly. . . whenever we met in later years, my part in our conversation consisted chiefly in saying 'Sh-sh'. Mr. Melly had to be obscene to be believed.
In all, Mr. Hall painted three portraits of me. The fees he paid me for sitting for these were very helpful, but I had the misfortune to outlive them. I had reached the end of my tether and the tethers of my friends. I was rescued by the documentary movie industry.
The only money I can remember earning at this time came from a Mr. Hall. Without ever having met me, he telephoned me to ask if I would allow him to paint my portrait.
I was flattered by his interest in me and charmed by his courtesy. . . His melancholy dignity, however, baffled me. I sometimes thought he would have liked to shed this but couldn't.
The only time I gave a gracious nod in the direction of culture was when surrealism came to London. . . I went to the famous exhibition in Burlington Galleries where I found myself an unwitting though not entirely unwilling exhibit. In and out of the different rooms glided a certain Mrs. Legge wearing full evening dress and carrying in her hand uncooked pork chops. With orange face and vermilion lips I weaved my way past her, clanking with amulets, but, as her face was entirely covered by a hood of roses, I could not see whether she registered fear that I might be a materialization of the surreal world or annoyance that another voluntary worker had got his rota mixed with hers. For a moment one the the dearest wishes of surrealism was fulfilled. The barriers between art and life fell down.
I got to know slightly better a writer who occasionally came and sat with us while Mr. Hall worked at my portrait. I attended a small party as this man's house. One of the guests, . . sang himself to bits. . . I enjoyed his performance a little less for fearing that he might have a stroke. Soon he was carrying on like this several times a night. It was Mr. Melly. . . whenever we met in later years, my part in our conversation consisted chiefly in saying 'Sh-sh'. Mr. Melly had to be obscene to be believed.
In all, Mr. Hall painted three portraits of me. The fees he paid me for sitting for these were very helpful, but I had the misfortune to outlive them. I had reached the end of my tether and the tethers of my friends. I was rescued by the documentary movie industry.