"What a piece of work . . ."

I'm not referring to my poor neglected blog, of course. The muse has been on an extended vacation and other things have been happening, as things are wont to do, but I just took some deep breaths and trusted that all would be well, writing-wise, in due course.

I always think of January and February as my fallow time; nothing much is done, apart from the essential. The lack of light, the lack of sun, the wet and the cold all contribute to the slow smothering of creativity and then . . . and then just when I think I will be trapped in the cold, wet, grey creative fog for ever, somewhere and somehow a small trigger is pulled  (sometimes several small triggers).

Which is precisely what has happened in the past few days; e-mails from a patient reader, wondering where I had gone, and from a new reader, who had stumbled upon a recent post containing a U A Fanthorpe poem. Well, thank you for the nudges, dear readers; they were just what I needed.

And the next nudge came on Sunday. Friends were visiting and after we had walked all the dogs (theirs and mine) we tucked in to a proper winter fireside tea. The conversation turned to two television programmes from the previous evening: Sinatra Sings, which I had seen but they had not, and Lucian Freud: Painted Life, which they had seen but I had not. My love for Sinatra's music was pretty much on a par with one of the friend's love of Lucian Freud's work.' If money were absolutely no object, she said, 'he is the first artist whose work I'd buy.'

I caught up with the Freud programme that night and was struck by parallels in the lives of these two men who, on the surface, could not have come from more different backgrounds. Unless one starts with the family history of exile from another place . . .

Sinatra SIngs includes rare footage of The Voice in a recording studio. Sinatra had an intense dislike of being filmed when he was recording and yet this footage conveys so much of what made SInatra a master of his art. The concentration, the intensity, absolutely in the moment . . . and then, when the recording is finished, he slips seamlessly back into wisecracking mode. And then his face as the recording is played back . . . no words needed.

A Painted Life also included not simply rare but unique footage - Lucian Freud at work in his studio. And in his studio on the very last day that he painted. Contributor after contributor, colleagues, former partners, daughters, models all spoke of 'Lucian's intensity'.  That word again.

And all the other parallels: the women, a life lived on their own terms, the hordes of people wanting to press the flesh, the absolute dedication to their art. Awkward, difficult, challenging, brilliant men - with devoted daughters, who spoke of their fathers with love. Tina Sinatra fondly remembering her father sitting by the pool, listening to a ball game on the radio; one of Freud's daughters (Esther I think) is moved to tears as she remembers running her hands through his hair for the first time, when her father was already an old man.

I found both programmes fascinating and, yes, moving, although I appreciate that, in SInatra's case, the myths, the stories, the scandals all have a habit of getting in the way of the music. And there are those who find Freud's work offensive, not least the paintings of his daughters.

It will always be a conundrum. Do we allow the artist's (whatever the art form) behaviour to inform our reaction to their art? I remember once reading a very hissy-fitty comment about a well-known and highly regarded writer who, it transpired, had slept with people to whom they were not married at the time. If the words 'Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells' had appeared at the end of the comment, I would not have been surprised.

As to the conundrum, I rather think that Gay Talese got to the heart of things - as least as far as Sinatra was concerned - in this groundbreaking article, which originally appeared in Esquire in 1966.

I happened to mention Sinatra's vocal accomplishments to an acquaintance yesterday evening. She pulled a face, saying that she found it surprising that someone who so often hit a wrong note, managed to make his voice sound rather good. Wrong notes? How come I had never noticed?  'Not my sort of music. At all. But I do hope I haven't spoilt it for you,' she added. (Er, no; I think it would take more than that.)

Experience should have taught me that now was not the time to mention . . . Lucian Freud. The acquaintance made another face and mentioned the thing about the daughters. The conversation trailed uncomfortably away.

Ah well.

You, lovely readers, will have your own view about these things. Sinatra Sings has already been shown in the US; meanwhile, UK readers can still catch it here until 25 February. (And UK readers can also watch Lucian Freud: Painted Life here until the same date.)

Since watching both these programmes, I do find myself wondering what sort of world it would be if the only art that was produced, the only songs that were sung, the only books that were written, the only music composed, had emanated from people who led pure, blameless and spotless lives. (If I knew anyone who had led a pure, blameless and spotless life, I might be able to tell you.)

Meanwhile, I'll just leave you with Frank. In the studio. Doing what he did best. And, as far as I can tell, not hitting a wrong note. 

 

Comments

[Pamela (Lady Luz)]

Good to see you back D.

Programme on Sinatra excellent, as well the whole jazz weekend on BBC I thought.

[materfamilias]

I feel the same way. Those who can't read Atwood because she's perceived, via interviews, as cold. Those who can't watch films/movies with Depardieu because he's so gross in person (yet he can do more with his right eyebrow . . . ). I'll confess that I've rather gone off Tom Cruse with his shenanigans over the past few years, but I think back to his performance in, particularly, Magnolia, and am forced to admit that he's still got acting chops in spades. . .
Glad to have you back posting!

[Susan]

Just adore Frank. I used to play his records in college and draw quite a crowd since everyone else was playing punk rock. He could make a fan out of even the most punked out anybody. Especially love the song you posted - funny how it was just lovely back then and now (older, much!) it is so terribly poignant.

[60 going on 16]

Susan, Materfamilias and Pamela: thank you so much for your reassuring comments - much appreciated after an equal number of readers unsubscribed yesterday! You win some, you lose some . . .

This post obviously rang bells or touched nerves. The moral of which is, if you want to retain all your subscribers do not write about a) Frank Sinatra, b) Lucian Freud or c) the amatory inclinations of the famous - or at least don't write about them all in the same post!