Sitting for Celia Paul

My experience sitting for the British painter

Dear Great Women Art Lovers,

Last July, I was painted by Celia Paul. The following week I wrote about the experience, which has just been published in Harper’s Bazaar. Scroll on for a preview.

Tomorrow, Wednesday 9 April at 7pm, I will be interviewing Celia at Foyles Bookstore in London, around the corner from her studio. We will celebrate her book, ‘Celia Paul: Works 1975–2025’. Please join; tickets here.

Katy Xo

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On a grey, wet London morning last summer, I took the no.1 bus from the end of my road, straight down Great Russell Street.

I was to sit for the painter Celia Paul and due to arrive at 9am, wearing plain clothes. Sifting through my wardrobe – which mainly consists of corduroy suits, striped tops and shirts with giant bows – it was difficult to find something quite right. If you’ve ever seen Celia's paintings, you’ll know that her figures appear ethereal. They’re often self-portraits – or portraits of those close to her (she is one of five sisters) – dressed in spattered-painted smocks, or long Victorian nightgowns. Her subjects are bathed in a sepia, grey/green-toned glow. It’s as though they’re devoid of time, context or place. They exist in the world of Celia Paul, where time is slow, the light is intense, and gazes are sharp, quiet and powerful.

I left my house after settling on a white linen dress, overlaid with a cream silk shirt (I added a bow, but, unsurprisingly, was later told to take it off).

I’ve sat for artists before – most commonly Chantal Joffe. But when I sit for Chantal, whose studio I’ve been visiting for the past five years, we chat non-stop (she knows everything about my life), play music, and eat jammy dodgers and thin slices of cheese. Knowing Celia, I suspected things would be different.

I was excited: Celia hardly ever paints anyone other than her family. But I was also daunted. To prepare, I emailed her to ask how she works. “In silence”, she replied. I’ve known her for a long time: I started out working on the front desk of the gallery that represents her when I was 18, and later interviewed her for my podcast. But it didn’t detract from the fact that I felt incredibly nervous – and had done all week.

I think it was the prospect of that word: silence. Me, sitting there, alone, with my thoughts, and worrying about how I’d claw myself out of them. I'd been feeling unmoored after a difficult emotional period, and had been using my work as a distraction from confronting it, and the last thing I reckoned I needed was time to think – or overthink.

On the bus I googled: “how to sit still for 10 minutes”, “…30 minutes”, “…1 hour”. It might sound funny to some people, but the idea of sitting still fills me with terror. Too often we trick ourselves into thinking that we can’t be alone with our innermost feelings.

I got off the bus and paced down the street – past the psychoanalyst offices housed in the rows of Georgian terraces, a suite of UCL buildings, tourist cafés and shops that sell Union Jack cushions. It’s also home to the British Museum, and, as I was already half-way down the road by 8.52am, I had some time to spare to look up and stare at this giant institution. I didn’t bring an umbrella, or a coat for that matter, and the rain was pouring down on me. But it didn’t matter, I love standing in the rain.

Other than that, I was pretty much alone, standing in front of that looming, wide-facaded Neoclassical temple of knowledge. I didn’t know at the time, but Celia was looking down at me from her top-floor flat which faces the museum. It measures eye-level with the facade’s triangular pediment that’s punctuated with recognisable figures from mythology, from an Athena-like figure, with her spear and helmet, to wolfhounds on a leash.

I rang the bell, Celia buzzed me in and I walked up the stairs. It’s an unusual building: some of the flat entrances look imposingly grand, with double doors and gilded handles, whereas others feel like they’ve been occupied by the same people forever. I get a sense of when I’m near because of the all-consuming smell of paint and linseed oil that seeps into the hallways.

As I turn into the last balustrade, I see her smiling face. Celia greets me with warmth. Closing the large wooden door behind us, we walk into her flat. It’s of a modest size, maybe two bedrooms. There is paint on the skirting board and battered doors; the walls are filled with scribbles – telephone numbers, words and occasional drawings.

Read the rest here.

Photo: Anthony Sheridan

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