I met Brian Sewell, bête noire supreme of the art establishment, when he joined my team on the notorious television art quiz Gallery in the early 1980s. It was my first experience, close and personal, of that octave-ranging, mellifluous, crème brûlée voice, rivalled only by that of Kenneth Williams in full flow. At one point, he let forth a tirade (fully justified) against the naff, curly gold frame from Woolworths that our director would inflict on every work of art, from Rembrandt to Rothko.
In 1994, a letter appeared in the Evening Standard, submitted by some of the art world elite (not renowned for their sense of humour), effectively demanding the end of Brian’s reign as the paper’s art critic. I refused to be among the signatories: on radio or television, he was irresistibly funny and in print he had the rare capacity to engender strong reactions – often of fury, but not always. I would never condemn anyone who made me laugh and whose prose, however challenging, brimmed with such style.
Four years later, when my sculpture for Oscar Wilde was unveiled facing Charing Cross station, Brian dealt a double-page blow of high-flown abuse. I telephoned friends and told them to buy the paper, as my work had been served a feast of the best possible “street cred”.
A little while later, he wrote a response to an exhibition of paintings of dogs, and mine was the single work he reproduced, awarding it best in show. How embarrassing. Then, in a review of my 2008 exhibition Waves and Waterfalls at Marlborough, he wrote: “Hambling succeeds where Leonardo fails” – and I concluded that he was either bonkers or all right.
Some time afterwards, I had finally agreed to be a judge for the National Portrait Gallery BP Portrait award and was surprised to be greeted by Brian in a disused factory close to where I live in London. He invited me to sit next to him. With a long day ahead, I asked him to make me laugh, as often as possible, and he returned the request. One of his memorable comments was: “You will notice that the driftwood frame is very much in this year”, and how true that was, albeit an improvement on the curly gold from Woolworths.
To my amazement, we always agreed on which portraits weren’t quite as bad as others. And, incidentally, in a rare telephone conversation (the length of which rivalled those of David Sylvester), Brian did discuss contemporary art, as opposed to picture frames.
After lunch at BP prize-deciding time, Brian suddenly disappeared, causing 10 minutes of alarm, only to materialise with my dog Max cradled in his arms. He had saved him from the open street door, many corridors away, which Max had considered more enticing than our company. This experience sliced through any misgivings I might have had about Brian.
His was a lone voice of passion, conviction, perception, profound knowledge, outrage and wit. Whether in his articles or books, his prose poured forth in eloquent, raging torrents, now for ever at a standstill. His surviving dogs are not alone in lamenting their often misunderstood, but never boring, fellow creature.
