Ron Padgett, 1970
I was flattered that Fairfield invited me out to Southampton to do my portrait. My wife, son, and I had house-sat for him the year before, which made me feel as though I had grown closer to him in some mysterious way. Maybe I now felt that his painting my portrait would bring him closer to me, too.
Late the first morning, we went out to his studio in the barn behind the house. Except for the dimensions of the canvas, he didn’t seem to have the portrait planned out. He told me to stand or sit wherever I wanted, and since the couch looked comfortable and beautiful, I chose it. I sat down the way I would have sat down were he not doing my portrait.
That first session lasted a couple of hours. The time went by quickly, with Fairfield working and us talking occasionally as he worked. I felt less self-conscious as a subject than I had as a person, and the conversation was easy, ranging from art to friends to anything. Each time I got up to stretch I looked at the canvas and was surprised by how quickly it was going. In fact, after the first day’s sitting the picture looked 90 percent finished.
It was like building a house, though: the framing and sheathing go quickly but the finish work takes time. The second day’s sitting— another two or three hours— showed less dramatic progress. I wish I could remember more clearly how he went about the whole process. I do remember that the only part that gave him pause was the composition of the background, with a mirror reflecting the sitter from another angle.
The thing that stands out in my mind was part of our conversation. At one point I commented that painters invariably make themselves look terrific in their self-portraits, to which Fairfield countered, “Not at all!” and, continuing to paint, recited a long list of self-portraits by artists who had done anything but glamorize their images. I think I then steered the conversation toward poetry, firmer ground for me.
At the end of the second sitting the picture was pretty much finished. Fairfield said he’d touch it up in a few spots later, but that essentially it was done, and he liked it. It was very satisfying for me to have sat for a picture that he liked and liked doing, as if I had contributed in some way to the making of this beautiful work. Then we went down to the beach and walked his dog for a couple of miles.
Ron Padgett, 1984
Whitney Exhibition
Back in Boston Again (Again) Notes on the Fairfield Porter Retrospective, 1983
On my way out this morning I’m stopped by my sleepy wife….
Blood Work Selected Prose Ron Padgett Bamberger Books 1993