One day, nearly six years ago, I had to sit completely still for several hours at a time. I was having my portrait painted, you see, by three artists for the Sky programme Portrait Artist of the Year. As far back as primary school, I was diagnosed by several adults as having ants in my pants. I am afraid those ants are still there, poor things. What lives they have led. I find keeping still even for a few minutes a real challenge at the best of times. For two two-hour sessions, under the close scrutiny of the artists and several television cameras, it was nothing short of traumatic. I can only compare the feeling to the odd occasions when I’ve experienced claustrophobia, trapped in a lift or a jam-packed aircraft cabin on a long flight.
When the ordeal came to an end, I was invited to view the likenesses these artists had created. One was the work of a woman from the West Country. I will not name her, because I can’t imagine this was the proudest hour of her artistic career and doubtless she doesn’t want to be reminded of it. In her portrait, I looked like how I might appear after a heavy night out, if viewed through some misshaped glass. I’ve never been a great admirer of my face, but this was a picture that even my fiercest critic would acknowledge didn’t flatter me. To put it another way: even when my self-esteem has hit rock bottom, I never think of myself as looking quite this bad.
