How I Won the Archibald

The Archibald Portrait Prize. The most prestigious art prize in Australia. Every year its winner makes the front page of the newspapers and a lead story on the TV. It is a $100,000 prize and can radically change the art world reputation of the winner. It started back in 1921 and for many people is their only exposure to art. Being Australia, you can even bet on who will win.

I would love to win it, or even just be a finalist, but there are obstacles in the way. I don’t know how to make a painting that will please the judges.

I have plenty of encouragement from friends and family. Everyone says I should enter. I have painted all my family and most of my colleagues. They all gush about what a great likeness I can create. As I tell my students at the private girls’ school where I teach art, all you have to do is put on the canvas what you see. It sounds so simple. And for me it is. I look and I put down what I see. I look again and add a bit more to represent exactly what I see. It seems so obvious to me, but it is hard to get the girls to do it. Sometimes my frustration shows. “Surely you can see that our sitter doesn’t have fat cheeks and twisted eyebrows”, I say.

Now I am at my therapist’s office. She says that I need to relax more and put less emphasis on the effort to reproduce reality. My employer forced me into counselling because of complaints from the parents. My therapist says I should stop criticising my pupils for their mistakes and rather I should focus on their creative talents. “Don’t be so perfectionist” she says “and focus on the creative talents of your pupils. You gain much more from judicious praise than from criticism”.

I think about this. It is all very well in theory, but I have an actual class of girls and they need guidance. “I have to tell them when they make mistakes” I say. “Look at Picasso” responds my therapist. “He doesn’t represent anything accurately, but his paintings have great emotional power”. Just my luck to get a therapist who part times as an art critic.

I look around her office. It is a little strange. Concita Di Santo is her name and she has a flag of Chile in the corner to emphasise her origins. She has a large zodiac chart on one wall. On another is her degree certificate in psychology from Griffith University, a diploma in counseling from Governor Moonbeam College in Marin County, California, and a large picture of her looking into the distance under the slogan “Ab Aeterno Te Accerso”. My Latin isn’t up to the translation, but mentally I note it for later. In the corner is a large crystal ball which seems to be emitting a flickering light.

I focus and try and put my case as strongly as I can. I tell her that my great strength is my power of observation. I can accurately represent what I see. People like that, in fact they love it. Sometimes people think that my paintings are so real that they are actually photographs. To achieve that, it is so important to get the details right. She frowns. “But art is more than just copying of reality. You have to interpret reality” she counters. “It is passion and feeling that makes a great work of art. And to make a great teacher you need empathy – you must try and understand your pupils and appreciate their talents”. I don’t really see it – some of my pupils are beyond anyone’s understanding - but if I want to keep my job, I will have to take a positive attitude to all this advice.

My attention wanders back to the Archibald. With a prize like that on my CV, the school would hesitate to fire me, whatever the complaints. But the Archibald is not judged on likenesses. Sometimes it is hard to discern exactly what it is judged on, but no conventional portraits like mine have won in recent years. The judges appointed by the Gallery of New South Wales prefer paintings with an abstract quality to them. They need to have that avant-garde quality and go beyond mere photographic realism. The judges’ commentaries are as full of references to emotions as my therapist. But then again, perhaps with her advice I could make a convincing entry.

“OK”, I say, “I will do my best. I will try and have some progress by our appointment next week”.

Now it’s two days later. It has been a trying afternoon. I am cleaning up the art room after a landscape class with the tenth grade. I had given them the task of painting the wooded hills that lay behind the school. A simple task of hills and grass and trees. But some of the girls seemed incapable of reproducing the trees and hills that lay right in front of their eyes.

My thoughts are interrupted by a breathless ninth grader who told me that I needed to go and see Mrs. Jackson “right away”. In my school days Mrs. Jackson would have been called the Headmistress or perhaps the Principal. Now the school is run by a leadership team, and Mrs. Jackson is Chair of the School Leadership Team. She is just as scary as the old-fashioned Headmistress and my heart sinks. What have I done wrong now?

Mrs. Jackson gets straight to the point. “We want you to enter the Archibald’s this year” she said. “But I have no sitter” I reply. The rules are very clear that the subject must be a person “distinguished in art, letters, science or politics”. My circle of acquaintances is rather deficient in such people. “That’s alright”, she says “we have arranged for Celine Bromley to sit for you”. Celine Bromley is the Minister of Education in the federal government in Canberra. Known as Celine the Mean by our teachers’ union, Bromley is best known for diverting public education funds to private religious schools like ours. In her own party she is seen as Australia’s own Margaret Thatcher and tipped as a future prime minister.

I search for a way out. Another rule is that there must be at least one live sitting. “Surely Minister Bromley won’t have time to sit for a portrait”, I say. “She has agreed to give up four hours” is the response. Mrs Jackson looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Do I have to remind you that we have had four complaints about you over the past year. You can be very cutting with the children, and our therapist is uncertain about your co-operation.”.

I know that I need my job, and I cave. “I shall want to do it in my own way”, I say. Undeterred Mrs Jackson says “It needs to be a large portrait, suitable for her office. Celine was here on a private visit a month ago and she so admired some of your work, especially that large portrait of Mr Duggan. So just make it like that – but bigger. The school will provide you with materials – and time off classes. Celine wants you to paint the portrait in her office, so that you can get the right background”. Mrs Jackson gets a serious look on her face. “Tony, this is important” she says. “Please do a good job. We need the support of the Education department and its Minister”.

I see opportunity for a little relief. “If I have to concentrate on the painting” I say, “I may not have time for counselling sessions”. Mrs. Jackson smiles a knowing smile. “I think Celine Bromley will be therapy enough for now”, she says.

And so, two weeks later, I am in the Minister’s office with my easel and all my equipment. Everything in the office seems to be about Celine. There are pictures of her with Angela Merkel and Bill Gates. There is a picture of her opening a new Lutheran school and printed prominently underneath in quotes is the slogan “Our Schools have Four Walls Outside and the Future Inside”. There is the plaque commemorating her as Dux of her high school.

I sit down opposite Celine at her large and uncluttered desk, and we discuss how she wants to appear. She insists that she wants to be portrayed standing behind her desk looking straight into the frame. I say that it will be tiring, but she is firm. From time to time, the phone rings. The conversations seem intense.

I set up my easel and begin to examine my subject in detail. She is quite a large, rather intimidating woman dressed in a hangover green blouse, navy blue skirt and with bright red lipstick. Where on earth am I to start?

I mix up the colour for the blouse and selected a brush. Then, quite distinctly, I hear a voice – saying “larger brush, make it bold”. I look around. Celine is still on the phone – speaking in a rather hushed voice. There is no one else in the room. Who was talking, or was I dreaming? I pull out a larger brush and start. There is that voice again, saying, “to the right, to the right”.

It sounds like my mother. She passed away several years ago after a long battle with ill health and Alzheimer’s. Her care at nursing homes consumed most of the proceeds of the sale of the house she had shared with Dad for fifty years. He had passed away a few years before her.

This voice sounds strong, enthusiastic, and insistent. Just like my mother when I grew up and she had taught me how to paint.

“Mum is that you?”, I say. Celine looks up from her phone call – annoyed to be interrupted and surprised at what I had said. “Sorry”, I murmur and got back to work. Celine ends her call and picks up some paperwork from the desk. The voice keeps giving me directions. The office is quiet now and it is apparent that only I can hear the voice. I work quickly and silently, following the orders. I mix some flesh tones and start on the ears – which are quite prominent. “Not there, further right” says the voice. The overall composition is quite contrary to my normal style of painting. I still follow my custom of painting exactly what I see. But now everything is in the wrong place or is the wrong size. The mouth is made far larger and the lipstick even redder than in real life. The teeth look threatening.

After an hour, I feel the atmosphere of the room is too closed and powerful to continue. I tell Celine that I have the outline, and now I would like to take photographs so that I can finish the work back in my studio. I pull out my tripod and set up my camera. I take a series of pictures with Celine standing in various poses.

“Can I see how far you have come with the painting?” she says. I am in panic and have to think quickly. “Oh no,” I say “it’s awfully bad luck to view a painting before it is finished. Please wait until I have got all the detail. I am sure you will be delighted with the finished picture”, I lie. Fortunately, our discussion is interrupted by another telephone call before she can insist.

I swiftly remove the picture and take it to my car and carefully stow it in the boot. I return to Celine’s office for all my equipment. Once alone in my car I try again to contact the voice. “Are you there, Mum?” But there is no reply. The voice is silent.

I am back home, a few days later. I print off the photos and stick them on the wall. I open up the painting and get back to work. The first thing I tackle is the hands. “Make them larger”. The voice is back.

Finishing that painting takes another three weeks. I am aided all along by the voice. But never once does it respond to my questions.

A few more weeks have passed, and the paint is dry. What I have is a deconstructed Celine Bromley. The parts are separated and out of scale – somewhat in the style of Picasso. Up close it is hard to make sense of the tangle of colour. But standing back you can piece the sections together and see the likeness. You can also sense the powerful passion of the woman herself – the determination and the ambition, and the conviction that all her actions are perfectly right and justified.

At long last I have painted a picture with feeling and emotion. Something I have never thought important before. Perhaps even my therapist will be satisfied. But have I truly painted it? Or was it really my mother’s work? The voice has been silent for three weeks, and now I am beginning to wonder if it was real. Was it in fact a communication from my mother, or was it my own subconscious straining to free itself from the constraints of my conscious mind? Maybe the creative spirit has been deep in my own mind all along and had to resort to subterfuge to get my conscious attention. I feel my head beginning to ache trying to resolve the questions.

The deadline for the Archibald is coming up fast. I decide to make the long drive to Sydney to deliver the painting myself, rather than trust a freight company. It is exhilarating to drive up to the back bays of the Gallery of New South Wales and to proudly present the painting along with all the paperwork.

But what they tell me now is a little daunting. So far there have been over five hundred entries. Only sixty will be chosen as finalists and hung in the gallery. I had been so sure my painting was a winner, but now it might not even be displayed. On the drive back up the Pacific Highway my mood is depressed.

Is my painting any good? I think so, but what will the judges think. And what about the reaction of Celine Bromley, and more importantly Mrs Jackson, when they see it? They wanted a conventional portrait, but now they have something completely different. I am sure they will hate it, and my job will be gone. It is too late to go back now and withdraw my painting. But perhaps if the judges reject it, and do not even hang it, I could hide it and make another conventional portrait in my usual style. I contemplate this for a few minutes without enthusiasm.

Back at school everyone asks about the painting. I maintain a blank face and say they will just have to wait. But I am a bit more relaxed with my students, and no longer insist on absolute accuracy to the real world. Sometimes distortions improve the overall effect, and feelings can be more important than objective reality. I am still uncertain whether my mother was involved, but the whole experience of painting Celine’s portrait has changed my outlook on life. And the students have changed too – they are more enthusiastic than before.

A few more weeks go by and it is early morning in my classroom. I am getting ready for the week ahead. I am going to have the girls paint portraits of each other. I will have them take turns sitting and painting. Of course, there will be a lot of chatter, which I used to find irritating. But perhaps it will be good for them to discuss each other’s work.

I check my emails. There is one from the Gallery of New South Wales! It takes me a minute to gather the courage to open it. Will it be the joy of acceptance or the humiliation of rejection? With shaking hands, I click on the message. “Dear Mr Roberts, We are pleased to inform you that your painting Celine Bromley at Work has been chosen as a finalist in this year’s Archibald prize.” I can hardly believe it. Out of the 670 entrants, mine was among the 60 chosen as finalists. I hear the voice again “have confidence”. The email says that a public announcement will be made later in the day, along with images of all the works chosen.

Monday mornings are the day for school assembly. I head down to the assembly hall. As luck will have it, I run into Mrs Jackson on the way. “My – you’re looking pleased with yourself” she says, “What’s happened?”. I cannot restrain myself. I tell her that I made the finalists. “Oh good” she says, “I’ll call Celine”.

In the assembly there is the usual roll call of wins by the netball team, and the debating team has beaten out four boy’s schools to win a coveted prize. Then Mrs Jackson says, “And now our distinguished arts teacher Mr Roberts has a special announcement about his achievement”.

I climb up on the stage and address the school. I explain what the Archibald Prize is all about and how my entry has made it against all the odds into the finalists. I tell them that if they read the newspapers tomorrow, they will be able to see images of all the works that had made it to the finals, including mine. The girls all clap and I look down on the rows of girls and teachers. There in the front row, sitting with the teachers, and smiling at me, is my mother. How did she get here? She looks the same as when I was ten years old. She is wearing a favourite hat that I had long forgotten.

I am eager to talk to her, but when I get down from the stage, she has disappeared. Was it just my imagination? Am I having delusions or just going quietly crazy?

I dread the next day. I arrive at my classroom, and sure enough there is the exact same ninth grader. “Mr Roberts, Mrs Jackson says you are to come to her office straight away”. Is it my imagination, or does she have a nasty smile on her face?

In her office, Mrs Jackson is surprisingly calm. She has the newspaper spread out on her desk with images of all the finalists. “What on Earth is this” she says, pointing at my work. “Why couldn’t you have done one of your normal paintings. What has got into you?”

With my voice only slightly shaking, I put on a brave face. “Well, the judges like it. What does Minister Bromley say”. “That hardly matters now” says Mrs Jackson with a wry smile of resignation. She turns the paper to the front page. There has been a cabinet reshuffle. Celine is in the wrong faction in her party, and now she is no longer Minister Bromley. She is just a plain back bench MP. David Williams now holds the Education portfolio. I have heard that he is a bit of an artist himself.

“Wow” I say, and my confidence grows. “I might win”. Mrs Jackson shakes her head in disbelief, and I leave her office.

Now it is a few weeks later and I am once again in Sydney for the awards ceremony. The Gallery director drones on and on about the history of the prize and I am having trouble staying awake.

I always believe in planning for success, so I have written a few words on paper for an acceptance speech. But I am not optimistic.

Now the speaker is portraying the entries this year as “outstanding quality”. She describes the winner of the packing room prize and lists several highly commended works. Finally, she announces “And the winner of the Archibald Prize this year is”, pause, “Tony Roberts with Celine Bromley at Work. Congratulations Tony Roberts”.

Amid the cheering I make my way to the podium, clutching my notes.

I survey the room. There in the front row is my mother again! And who is that next to her? No, it cannot be! It is. It is my therapist. And who is that next to them? It looks like Picasso!

In a daze I give my speech. Afterwards, people crowd round, wanting to shake my hand and offer congratulations.

As quickly as I can, I shake them off and try and find my mother. There she is, with her two companions, a bit apart from everyone else. I go up to her. “Hello, dear” she says. “I love you Mum”, I say “but how is this possible?” “Concita here is amazing in her abilities. Her motto means ‘I summon you from eternity’, you know,” said my mother. “She summoned me, and she insisted that you had reached a critical point in your life and needed special help. Its hard to come back – even fleetingly, but we managed it, and Pablo here agreed to help”. “When will I see you again?” I say. She shakes her head “Not for a long time”. Picasso chimes in “You have talent young man. We have only directed it a bit. Now you are on your own and must follow your heart”.

Someone is pressing my arm. “Would you like red or white wine” they say. I turn to answer and Concita responds “I’ll have red”. When I turn back, my mother and Picasso have disappeared. Concita sees my disappointment. “They couldn’t stay long” she says, “but we really needed them to get you on the right track”.

“There are so many things I wanted to ask my mother” I say. “Can’t you bring them back?”.

“Maybe some other time” she says. “But it is very hard”.

I look at her. Now that I am not worried about what she will say to the school, I notice that she is rather attractive. And her accent and the way she rolls her r’s is delightful. I wonder if she is attached. Will she be offended if I ask her out to dinner? I struggle to think of an appropriate line to take.

“How can I ever thank you”, I say.

“Well,” she says, “next year you can paint my portrait. But I want a proper portrait, not one of these weird, discombobulated things”.

I laugh, “How about we discuss it over dinner?”

“OK” she says.

“I have got one more question for you” I say. “When you were at Moonbeam college, did they teach hypnosis?”