The Collector

 I sent him away after supper and I've been finishing _Emma_. I _am_ Emma Woodhouse. I feel for her, of her and in her. I have a different sort of snobbism, but I understand her snobbism. Her priggishness. I admire it. I know she does wrong things, she tries to organize other people's lives, she can't see Mr. Knightley is a man in a million. She's temporarily silly, yet all the time one knows she's basically intelligent, alive. Creative, determined to set the highest standards. A real human being. Her faults are my faults: her virtues I must _make_ my virtues.

 And all day I've been thinking -- I shall write some more about G.P. tonight.

 There was the time I took some of my work round for him to look at. I took the things I thought _he_ would like (not just the clever-clever things, like the perspective of Ladymont). He didn't say a thing as he looked through them. Even when he was looking at the ones (like the _Carmen at Ivinghoe_) that I think are my best (or did then). And at the end he said, they're not much good. In my opinion. But a bit better than I expected. It was as if he had turned and hit me with his fist, I couldn't hide it. He went on, it's quite useless if I think of your feelings in any way at all. I can see you're a draughtsman, you've a fairish sense of colour and what-not, .sensitive. All that. But you wouldn't be at the Slade if you hadn't.

 I wanted him to stop but he would go on. You've obviously seen quite a lot of good painting. Tried not to plagiarize too flagrantly. But this thing of your sister -- Kokoschka, a mile off. He must have seen my cheeks were red because he said, is all this rather disillusioning? It's meant to be.

 It nearly killed me. I know he was right; it _would_ have been ridiculous if he hadn't said exactly what he thought. If he'd just kind-uncled me. But it hurt. It hurt like a series of slaps across the face. I'd made up my mind that he would like some of my work. What made it worse was his coldness. He seemed so absolutely serious and clinical. Not the faintest line of humour or tenderness, even of sarcasm, on his face. Suddenly much, much older than me.

 He said, one has to learn that painting well -- in the academic and technical sense -- comes right at the bottom of the list. I mean, you've got that ability. So have thousands. But the thing I look for isn't here. It just isn't here.

 Then he said, I know this hurts. As a matter of fact, I nearly asked you not to bring this round. But then I thought - . . there's a sort of eagerness about you. You'd survive.

 You knew they wouldn't be any good, I said.

 I expected just about this. Shall we forget you brought them? But I knew he was challenging me.

 I said, tell me in detail what is wrong with this. And I gave him one of the street scenes.

 He said, it's quite graphic, well composed, I can't tell you details. But it's not living art. It's not a limb of your body. I don't expect you to understand this at your age. It can't be taught you. You either have it one day, or you don't. They're teaching you to express personality at the Slade -- personality in general. But however good you get at translating personality into line or paint it's no go if your personality isn't worth translating. It's all luck. Pure hazard.

 He spoke in fits and starts. And there was a silence. I said, shall I tear them up? and he said, now you're being hysterical.

 I said, I've got so much to learn.

 He got up and said, I think you've got something in you. I don't know. Women very rarely have. I mean most women just want to be good at something, they've got good-at minds, and they mean deftness and a flair and good taste and whatnot. They can't ever understand that if your desire is to go to the furthest limits of yourself then the actual form your art takes doesn't seem important to you. Whether you use words or paint or sounds. What you will.

 I said, go on.

 He said, it's rather like your voice. You put up with your voice and speak with it because you haven't any choice. But it's what you say that counts. It's what distinguishes all great art from the other kind. The technically accomplished buggers are two a penny in any period. Especially in this great age of universal education. He was sitting on his divan, talking at my back. I had to stare out of the window. I thought I was going to cry.

 He said, critics spiel away about superb technical accomplishment. Absolutely meaningless, that sort of jargon. Art's cruel. You can get away with murder with words. But a picture is like a window straight through to your inmost heart. And all you've done here is build a lot of little windows on to a heart full of other fashionable artists' paintings. He came and stood beside me and picked out one of the new abstracts I'd done at home. You're saying something here about Nicholson or Pasmore. Not about yourself. You're using a camera. Just as _trompe-l'oeil_ is mischannelled photography, so is painting in someone else's style. You're photographing here. That's all.