Art in novels: when José Saramago wrote about Valeriano Trubbiani

A struggling young artist, commissioned to paint a portrait of an influential industrialist, learns in the process about himself and the world around him. Nevertheless, we wouldn’t say that this book has been written by a Nobel prized. José Saramago stems from a wrong assumption – there always comes a moment in painting when the picture cannot take another brushstroke, while writing can go on forever* – and the several descriptions of Italian renaissance masterpieces are far from being enlightening. Not even the description of the Venice Biennial in 1976 – referring to the Italian artist Valeriano Trubbiani – is remarkable, and the relation between painting and writing remains unresolved. The author seems to be nothing more than an occasional tourist in the art world.

*I observe myself writing as I have never observed myself painting, and discover what is fascinating about this craft. There always comes a moment in painting when the picture cannot take another brushstroke (bad or good, I can only make the picture worse), while these lines can go on forever, aligning the numbers of a sum that will never be achieved but whose alignment is already something perfect, a definitive achievement because known. I find the idea to go on writing for the rest of my life, whereas pictures are locked into themselves and repel. Tyrannical and aloof, they are trapped inside their own skin.

December 22, 2016