No-one wants to see themselves as others see them. The successful portraitist is one who paints with both tact and sympathy.
Iantine remembered railing about dishonesty and pandering to egos.
Master Domaize had looked over the half spectacles he now had to wear if he wanted to see beyond his nose and smiled that gentle, knowing smile of his.
“Those of us who have learned that the portraitist must also be the diplomat make a living. Those of us who wish to portray truth end up in a craft Hall, painting decorative borders.” When the commission to do miniatures of Lord Chalkin’s young children had been received at Hall Domaize, there had been no immediate takers.
“What’s wrong with it?” Iantine demanded when the notice had stayed on the board for three weeks with no-one’s initials.
He would shortly sit his final exams at Hall Domaize and had hopes to pass them creditably.
“Chalkin’s what’s wrong with it,” Ussie said with a cynical snort.
“Oh, I know his reputation,” Iantine replied, blithely flicking a paint-stained hand, everyone does. But he sets out the conditions,” and he tapped the document, “and they’re all the ones we’re supposed to ask for.”
Ussie smothered a derogatory laugh in his hand and eyed him in the patronizing way that irritated Iantine so. He knew he was a better draughts man and colorist than Ussie would ever be, and yet Ussie always acted so superior. Iantine knew his general skills were better, and improving, because of course, in the studio, everyone had a chance to view everyone else’s work. Ussie’s anatomical sketches looked as if a mutant had posed as the life model… and his use of color was bizarre. Ussie did much better with landscapes and was a dab hand at designing heraldry shields and icons and such peripheral art work.
“Yes, but you’ll have to live in Bitra Hold while you’re doing it, and coming into winter is not the time to live there.”
“What? To do four miniatures? How long could it take?” Iantine had a seven-day in mind. “Even for very small and active children, that should be sufficient.”
“All right, all right, so you’ve always managed to get kids to sit still for you. But these are Chalkin’s and if they’re anything like him, you’ll have the devil’s own time getting them to behave long enough to get an accurate likeness. Only, I sincerely doubt that an ‘accurate’ likeness is what is required. And I know you, Ian…” Ussie waggled a finger at him, grinning more broadly now. “You’ll never be able to glamorize the little darlings enough to satisfy doting papa.”
“But, The last time a commission came in from Chalkin,” said Chomas, joining in the conversation, “Macartor was there for nine months before his work was deemed satisfactory”.
Chomas jabbed his finger at the clause that began “on the completion of satisfactory work”. “He came back a ghost of himself and poorer than he’d started out.”
“Macartor?” Iantine knew of the painter. a capable man with a fine eye for detail, now doing murals for the new Hall at Nerat Hold.
He tried to think of a reason why Macartor had not been able to deal well with Chalkin. “Great man for detail, but not for portraiture,” he said.
Ussie’s eyebrows rose high in his long face and his grey eyes danced with mischief.
“So, take the commission and learn for yourself. I mean, some of us need some extra marks before Turn’s End, but not so badly as we’d go to Bitra Hold to earn ’em. You know the reputation there for gambling? They’d sooner stop breathing than stop gambling.”
“Oh, it can’t be half as bad as they say it is,” Iantine replied.
The sixteen marks, plus keep and travel expenses, is scale.
Ussie ticked the points off on fingers. “Travel? Well, you’d have to pay your own way there.”
“But he specifies travel” Iantine protested, tapping that phrase impatiently.
“Hmmm, but you have to pay out for the travel there and account for every quarter mark you spent. Take you a few days to sort out right there. Chalkin’s so stingy no decent cook stays with him, ditto for housekeeper, steward and any other staff, so you may end up having to cook your own meals if he doesn’t charge you for the fuel to cook with. The Hold’s not got central heating, and you’d want a room fire this time of the year in that region. Oh, and bring your own bed-furs, he doesn’t supply them to casual workers.”
“Casual? A portraitist from Hall Domaize is not classified as a casual worker,” Iantine said indignantly.
“At Bitra, my friend, everyone’s casual,” Chomas put in. “Chalkin’s never issued a fair service contract in his life. And read EVERY SINGLE WORD on the page if you are foolish enough to take the commission. Which, if you had the sense of little green apples, you won’t.” Chomas gave a final decisive nod of his head and continued on his way to his own work station, where he was doing fine marquetry on a desk.
However, Iantine had a particular need for the marks the commission would bring him. With his professional diploma all but in his hand, he wanted to start repaying what he owed his parents. His father wanted to avail himself of Iantine’s land allotment to extend his pasturage, but he didn’t have the marks to pay the Council transfer fees; never a huge amount, but sufficient so that Iantine’s large family would have to cut back on what few luxuries they had to save the sum. It was therefore a matter of self-esteem and pride for Iantine to earn the fee.
His parents had given him a good start, more than he deserved considering how seldom he had been at the hold since his twelfth birthday. His mother had wished him to be a teacher, as she had been before her marriage. She had taught all the basics to him, his nine siblings and the children in the other nearby Benden mountain sheep and farm holds. And because he had shown not only a keen interest in learning but also discernible skill in sketching - filling every inch of a precious drawing book with studies of every aspect of life on the hillside hold - it had been decided to send him to the College. His help would be missed, but his father had reluctantly agreed that the lad showed more aptitude with pen and pencil than shepherd crook. His next youngest brother, who had the temperament for the work, had been ecstatic to be promoted to Iantine’s tasks.
Once at the College, his unusual talent and insights were instantly recognized and encouraged. Master Clisser had insisted that he do a portfolio of sketches: animal, mineral and floral. That had been easy to collect since Iantine constantly sketched and had many vignettes of unsuspecting classmates: some done at times when he should have been doing other lessons. One in particular - a favorite with Master Clissex - was of Bethany playing her guitar, bending over the instrument for intricate chording. Everyone had admired it, even Bethany.
His portfolio was submitted to several private craft Halls which taught a variety of skills, from fine leather tooling to wood, glass and stone workings. None of those on the West Coast had places for another student, but the woman who was master weaver in Southern Boll had said she would contact Master Domaize in Keroon, one of the foremost portraitists on Pern, for she felt the boy’s talent lay in that direction.
To Iantine’s astonishment, a green dragon had arrived one morning at the College, available to convey him back for a formal interview with Domaize himself. Iantine wasn’t quite sure what excited him most: the ride on the dragon between, the prospect of meeting Master Domaize or the thought of being able to continue with art as a possible profession. He had been in a worse state on his return because Master Domaize, having set him the task of sketching himself, had accepted him as a student and sent off a message to his parents that very day, arranging terms.
Iantine’s family had been astounded to receive such a message.