Portrait of Albert Einstein - Summer 2007

This portrait was a pleasure to draw. With its large amount of detail, it was extremely time-consuming, and there was always the possibility of something going wrong. Albert Einstein's face was a contradiction, in that he often wore a disinterested expression, but one that was worn from endless hours of intense study and focus. In his face were not just details, but memories and stories. Hopefully, these could be captured with the physical detail.

Whilst facial detail is usually helpful to me, in that it works as a map of the face, and a very useful guide for my pencil, there is a hidden danger in it leading me up the wrong path-way. Your guard can be left down when you know that this detail is aiding you, and if you go in the wrong the direction, it can be too late before you realise. The consequences in this situation can be quite bad, as the damage to the drawing may be irreparable.

Therefore, every pencil stroke must be made with meticulous care, and often at a painfully slow speed. No line is placed on the page without your being fully sure that it should definitely be there. This clairty is ascertained by way of comparison with other details on the page, and by measurements of distance that involve a strict co-ordination between your eye and hand. With all of this having to be taken account of, the construction of a portrait can be quite stressful at times, as you are constantly riding on the edge of a precipice and desperately trying to hold your balance simultaneously. Einstein was full of this. The motivating factor through all of this journey is the promise of what you hope will be a rewarding image at the end of it. The prospect a great sense of relief at the end of the picture, having not fallen over the precipice, is something that always outweighs the tension when drawing it.

All of this detail typically provides you with the opportunity to make the drawing look more real. The lack of similar detail in the hair of this picture of Einstein provided a separate challenge, however. With much of it fading into nothing, the observer had to be aware of the reality that it was not, in fact, fading into nothing. In this situation, the parts of the hair that did not fade into nothing had to perform the function of reassuring the observer that their structure was mirrored by the hair that appeared to fade into the background. This is where you call upon the trust of the observer, who will hopefully provide you with the benefit of the doubt.

It is difficult for me to properly assess this portrait. Having spent so long working on it, you become so caught up in it that it is difficult to take an obective look at it. You are too conscious of aspects of it that somebody else may not notice. However, about nine months after finishing it, I am fairly content when I look at it.

The concept of portraiture

The distinguishing feature of a proper pencil portrait is the presence of an illusion of a third dimension. This dimension should be at the heart of every portrait. The task of the portraitist is to arrange a set of an almost infinite range of shades in such a way that they create the impression of depth.
The process by which the portraitist attempts to create a photographic representation of an image is extremely restrictive, and allows no room whatsoever for 'ad libbing'. It could be said that there are three steps in the journey of a portrait to its final resting place on the sheet of paper. The first is the photo from which the picture is drawn. All pictures are two-dimensional representations that, in a way, set out to fool the observer into believing that they are alive. It is the task of the mind to re-interpret the photo as two-dimensional, whilst at the same time remaining conscious of how exactly the photo succeeds in creating the perception of the third dimension. The mid-way step of the mind holds that representation intact and makes a judgement on the best way to reconstruct it into a tangible image on the blank page. The third step involves the transporting of the image from the mind and very carefully onto the page. Through these three steps, a proper representation of the image, complete with the illusion of the third dimension, should be constructed on the page.


The aim of the portraitist on setting out to create the representation should be to bring about a state of absolute perfection. This is an unrealistic aim, as perfection is impossible. However, the portraitist, whilst conscious of this fact, must strive in vain to attain it. This is the only way in which a near-perfect portrait can be made.
What distinguishes this form of portraiture from art is the fact that no self-expression, imagination or personal interpretation is permitted. What I call the fourth aspect – a 'dimension' that is distinct from the first three and is capable of creating an atmosphere or sense of moment – is not part of the process described. I believe that this fourth aspect is an integral part of all art, and is present in portraits that are drawn from life.
In summary, I believe that my form of portraiture can be described as a craft involving intense concentration and acute judgement.

Visit to Charlie Haughey at Abbeville - March 2001

Early in March 2001, I received a letter from the former Taoiseach, Charlie Haughey, inviting me to his mansion in Kinsealy in north Dublin, in order to talk about my portraits. Charlie Haughey was living in Abbeville, a large Georgian mansion built by James Gandon - the architect of some of Dublin's most prominent landmarks - in 1792. On Saturday, 10 March, my father and I drove there for our appointment with Haughey at 10:00. After we turned left off the Malahide Road and up his long drive-way, we were greeted by a Garda on duty, before halting at the main entrance to the house. On knocking on the door, I was a little taken aback to see the small and old figure of an historically larger-than-life politician standing in front of me. Wearing a fleece jacket and a pair of runners, Haughey welcomed us into his home.

In the hall were the busts of his four children, along with photos of himself with world leaders such as Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev. To the left of the hall was his study, which he brought us into. Sitting on his desk was a portrait of him that I had earlier sent to him. As we sat down, I showed him a folder of portraits that I had drawn. Many of the subjects were former colleagues or opponents of his. As he moved through them, he would refer to many of them by their first names. As he came to a portrait that I had drawn of John Wayne, he stared at it for a moment, before looking up at my father. He looked back down at the drawing and then pointed at my father. 'That's you!', he said to him!!

We then entered into a conversation, where we talked about the quality of life for artists in Ireland, and he asked me what I hoped to do once I completed my Leaving Certificate, which I was due to undertake some months later.

After this, Haughey brought us on a tour of Abbeville. The walls were almost completely covered in paintings and drawings by many of Ireland's most accomplished artists, including Nathaniel Hone, Robert Ballagh and Sean O'Sullivan. Many were portraits of Haughey and his family, including his father-in-law, Sean Lemass. One painting that he pointed out was by Robert Ballagh. Haughey said that he commissioned Ballagh to paint it in order to mark his first address to a Fianna Fail Ard Fheis as Taoiseach in 1980. What he hoped for was a close-up depiction of himself. However, what Ballagh did was show Haughey on his podium in the background of the picture, with the backs of the heads of the audience in the foreground. Despite not being as he had originally envisaged, Haughey said that he was very happy with it. He also speculated as to whether the back of one of the audience member's heads was that of Ballagh himself. (Five years later, I asked Ballagh this myself, and he confirmed that it was indeed the back of his head.)

After little under an hour in the house, my father and I went to take our leave. Walking back towards the hall, Haughey showed us a rug, on which was the coat of arms that the Chief Herald had put together for him. On it were the words 'Marte Nostro'. He explained that this meant: 'By our own efforts'. Leaving the house, he wished me well, and encouraged me to succeed with my portraits. As we drove back down the drive-way away from the house, Haughey stood at his door and waved us off, before turning back inside.

The experience was a surreal but strongly encouraging one, and one that I greatly appreciated.

Sean MacBride Portrait

Sean MacBride Portrait - December 2002

This face represents the dream of every person who appreciates exactly what the pencil is capable of creating. On a physical level, the face of Sean MacBride in old age is saturated with details. It is a collection of crevasses, contours, chasms, meandering lines and dramatic incidents of pure white collapsing determinedly into bleak darkness. These areas of activity combine to represent a man and a mind of deep reflection and of many experiences over a vast period of time. Compensating for an aged and tired face, it is clear from his deep-set eyes that there is a large repository of memories, feelings and thoughts that are as alive as they were at any other time in his long life.
The journey that was undertaken, from the first dot that was placed by the pencil on the page to the last one, was at times clear and at times confusing. The many lines that comprise the face acted as a map for my pencil, and each turn and advancement was guided by a set of straightforward rules. These rules could not be deviated from under any circumstances. Since the construction process was all relative to that which was already built, a misguided line on the page could have had drastic consequences for the future of the venture, and only when this venture was at a much further stage of advancement would this become clear. Therefore, throughout the long journey of construction, there was always an element of suspense and a certain degree of tension running from the realisation that around the next corner, there was a possibility that I would discover a monumental and disastrous error, the consequences of which would be too great and many to remedy. Not until the safe haven of home – the final detail – was materialised by the pencil, could that suspense begin to dissipate. Until that point was reached, there was no let-up from the journey. Even when the sketch-pad was put down, it was still there - an unfinished venture where the mind was trapped in a complex maze of lines. Still, when that maze had finally been navigated through successfully and the portrait had been fully constructed, the tension remained shortly into the aftermath, as I was still caught up in the process and was unable to cast a cold, objective opinion of the venture until later. Whilst that opinion remained to be determined, the uncertainty as to the form that it would take translated into real anxiety.
The process itself was a challenge, where apparent certainty and clarity were often overshadowed by subjective blindness and suspense. However, this challenge, once got through, resulted in a certain satisfaction and immense relief when the constant threats of disaster were never actually realised.