Wooley: By calling for its removal Gina has just drawn more attention to her portrait

The truth is I would have known nothing about Vincent Namatjira and his portrait of Gina Rinehart had the metals mogul not called for it to be banned, observes Charles Wooley

Australia’s richest woman, Gina Rinehart, has taken strong exception to the way Archibald Prize-winning artist Vincent Namatjira has depicted her in a series of impressionistic portraits on display at the National Gallery of Australia.

Impressionism that made a bad impression on Gina.

Last week she demanded that the portrait be removed from the walls of the Canberra gallery.

We don’t know what she has said about the work by the great-grandson of the famous Arrernte watercolourist, Albert Namatjira. Most Australians would be happy enough to have a personalised Namatjira, however they ended up looking. But then most Australians don’t have more than 30 billion bucks in their kick. Such wealth might change the way you see yourself and the way you want others to see you.

Like Queen Victoria, Gina was, we can assume, “not amused”.

In 1852, early in the history of photography, a portrait was taken of Queen Victoria and her children.

The Queen took no exception to how the children looked but thought that her own representation was “horrid”.

Australian billionaire Gina Rinehart has demanded the National Gallery of Australia remove her portrait.

Today, as we know, the British Royals will just quietly photoshop the picture until it fits their image of themselves. And hope no one notices.

Queen Victoria had to scratch out her face on the negative.

Gina hasn’t damaged the work. She just wants it removed from display.

You will have to make up your own mind. My eye is untutored and self-taught because at Launceston’s Brooks High School in the ’60s if they thought you were clever you studied French and German and if you were considered not clever you got art and music.

But to me the painting looks comedic. It’s a lighthearted look at the subject. Admittedly Gina appears a little startled, as if perhaps the world price of ferruginous manganese had just plunged southwards. But on the plus side, Namatjira, who has painted her before and without controversy, has this time captured the beautiful blue of her eyes.

The truth is I would have known nothing about Vincent Namatjira and his portrait of Gina Rinehart had the metals mogul not called for it to be banned.

You cannot buy this kind of publicity.

Artist Vincent Namatjira at Indulkana. Picture: Meg Hansen/Courtesy of Iwantja Arts.

If Namatjira has displeased the Queen of Australian mining, it surely won’t be a matter of “off with his head” as it might have been for Hans Holbein in 1537, when he painted the tyrannous and vain Henry VIII of England.

Henry was in ill-health, fat and 47 when Hans Holbein the Younger painted his obsequious portrait of the king.

The original work was destroyed by fire in 1698 but is still well known through many copies. The image is just pandering propaganda. The decrepit Henry is portrayed as a magnificent warrior with a flatteringly large codpiece. He is also wearing what were called ‘duckbill’ shoes. Henry was in fact the Imelda Marcos of his time, owning 1200 pairs of shoes.

Mr Holbein was careful to capture the detailed intricacy of the pair that the King was wearing that day.

During his 36-year reign, Henry was responsible for executing an estimated 57,000 people.

Holbein was well aware of the dangers of angering the dyspeptic monarch. He had worked for Anne Boleyn and Thomas Cromwell and so knew the wisdom of keeping your head when all about you were losing theirs.

The artist died in London in 1543 at the age of 47, a ripe old age back in the 16th century when the average Londoner died in their early 30s.

Holbein’s relative longevity might be seen in part as the painter’s reward for outrageous flattery.

Across headlands of time that’s a far cry from what Vincent Namatjira wrote last week. “I paint the world as I see it,” he said. “People don’t have to like my paintings, but I hope they take time to look and think, ‘Why has this Aboriginal bloke painted these powerful people? What is he trying to say?’.”

A portrait of Queen Elizabeth II, by artist, Lucian Freud which the late monarch wisely declined to offer an opinion about.

In 2001 Queen Victoria’s great-great-grand-daughter, Elizabeth II, was painted by Lucian Freud and the British tabloids raged that the artist had, “made the Queen look like a rugby prop forward or one of her corgis”. It was certainly a challenging portrayal, but the Queen didn’t proffer any artistic criticism nor even a personal opinion. Instead, she said to the artist: “Very nice of you to do this. I’ve very much enjoyed watching you mix your colours.”

Gina might take note.

I am no oil-painting, so a few years back had small expectations when my friend and Archibald Prize-winning artist the late Geoff Dyer painted my portrait.

It was an interesting process. In his studio Geoff attacked the canvas with cigarettes, red wine and expletives.

I experienced what ordinary “sitters” often do, a sense of guilt and inadequacy for not being more attractive and thus easier to paint.

The writer Clive James once told me how the great Jeffrey Smart painted him but wrestled with the task, telling Clive that his “eyes couldn’t be seen, and his ears were at different heights on his head”.

When Smart’s ‘Portrait of Clive James, 1991-92’ was revealed Clive said, “It was huge, like a tennis court, but the picture of me is a very, very tiny thing. A little dot! I got used to that very quickly.”

Charles Wooley with the portrait celebrated Tasmanian artist Geoff Dyer painted of the journalist, in 2017. And much like the Queen, Wooley diplomatically decided not to proffer an opinion about the work. Picture: Sam Rosewarne

When Dyer showed me my portrait, I thought I looked grumpy and gloomy whereas my self-image is of restrained mirth or at least of mild amusement.

I didn’t tell my friend of course. Diplomatically I said, “I very much enjoyed watching you mix the colours with claret and tobacco”.

But the artist’s view is an analysis we should never ignore.

In the words of the great Robert Burns:

“Oh would some Power the gift to give us

To see ourselves as others see us.”

When he was dying Geoff told me he was leaving the painting to me in his will but that I should come and collect it now, “because you never know how these matters will play out”.

I didn’t want to accept that he was leaving us and held off until it was too late.

Geoff turned out to be right about the bequest and now I have no idea where the portrait of my darker self is.

I’d like to look at it again.

Geoff might have got me right.

Charles Wooley is a Tasmania-based journalist