The Weeping Woman

On a balmy Wednesday morning in Monte Carlo last week, Lewis Hamilton rose out of bed and, from force of habit acquired in his youth, walked across the hall to see if any post had been delivered. Such was his importance that few, if any, items of correspondence got past his minders at the XIX Management Company which managed his professional affairs and it was not without considerable surprise that he found lying on the doormat a handwritten envelope with a London postmark. “Interesting,” he thought as he opened it and slipped out the letter it contained. It was from his childhood friend, Richard “Dimples” Dewhurst.

Dear Lewis


I hope you are well and enjoying the glorious weather in Monte Carlo. London is anything but glorious this Spring!


First, an apology. I had to sweet-talk your lovely mum into giving me your address, so please forgive me. You may not have heard this but my dad has been very ill and in and out of hospital for a little while now. He turns sixty next week and I thought it might cheer him up if I held a little party for him at Tate Britain where I work these days (I’m one of the curators there). He was always very fond of you when we were neighbours in Stevenage and I know he would be very pleased if you were there. It will also be a good opportunity for you to have a private viewing of the Picasso & Modern British Art exhibition (assuming, of course, that you are interested in such things!).


If you can make it – even if it is only for an hour or so – I will be really chuffed.


Your old mate


Dimples Dewhurst

Hamilton pondered over the letter as he made his way to the kitchen for some coffee. Dimples Dewhurst had been a close friend when they were younger. Their paths had diverged when Hamilton developed an interest in go-karting, at which Dewhurst was inept, and their friendship had waned as a result. Nevertheless, Richard’s father, Rev Michael Dewhurst, felt very proud of Hamilton’s karting achievements and often turned up on Sunday afternoons to offer Hamilton moral support. Getting to London for a private party in the thick of Grand Prix preparations, testing and sponsorship marketing was tricky, but in the circumstances it seemed like the decent thing to do. He decided to attend the party.

Upon arriving in Pimlico, even before ascending the steps into Tate Britain, Hamilton was, predictably, mobbed by a gaggle of young women screaming “I love you Lewis!” and offering parts of their body for Hamilton to sign or, better still, fondle. Inside the gallery the situation was not entirely dissimilar and it was with considerable relief that he found himself enveloped by the open arms of Richard Dewhurst and led away to the section of the gallery where the party was being held.

 “It’s lovely to see you, Dimples. You look great!” said Hamilton. “Gosh! It’s been a while. How many years exactly?”

“Seven”

 “Christ! That long, eh? Time really flies!”

 “I am glad you could make it, Lewis. Come and say hello to Dad – he will be thrilled to see you.”

The Reverend Michael Dewhurst, frail and shambling, was overwrought at the sight of Hamilton. He could not help but weep as he gingerly embraced the young racing driver. “God bless you, Lewis,” he said, “you were always a good lad.

When they had got over the niceties of re-acquaintance, Richard Dewhurst took Hamilton by the arm and led him round the exhibition.

“Have you ever heard of Dora Maar?” he asked.

“No, never. I don’t belong in the art world, dude. Have you heard of Alberto Ascari?”

Dewhurst grinned. Hamilton was more irritable than he remembered, but he let it pass.

“Allow me to broaden your mind a little,” he said, walking to a famous painting by Pablo Picasso called The Weeping Woman. He stopped and began pointing out aspects of the painting to Hamilton.




“This is ostensibly a painting about the atrocities of war. It is a wonderful example of Cubism and belongs to the Tate's own collection. Look carefully at it. A woman weeps in bitter anguish because of the horror of human suffering she has been forced to witness after a bombing campaign during the Spanish Civil War.The skin on her face has been grotesquely peeled away partially to reveal the skull beneath. It is a message to mankind that war has terrible human consequences and ought carefully to be considered before embarking upon. Convincing?"

Dewhurst paused for a moment for effect.

"In reality The Weeping Woman is Picasso figuratively venting his frustration at Dora Maar’s insecurity and her irrational and incessant weeping," he went on. "Whenever it seemed likely that Picasso would leave Dora, she would self-mutilate by cutting her fingers and then cry so pitiably that he would find himself wracked by guilt and unable to leave her. He felt wretched about it but couldn’t bear to be considered cruel and unfeeling. This went on for nearly nine years until a beautiful young art student called Francoise Gilot breezed into his life. She was forty years younger than Picasso, but he still fell head over heels for her so completely that leaving Dora Maar ceased to be a problem. Francoise was a far more stable influence on Picasso than Dora and they ended up setting up home together and having two children.”


“Interesting story,” said Hamilton. “He wasn’t looking to flatter her, was he? She looks hideous!

Dewhurst chuckled breezily. A salutary lesson for all men, my friend, but a man as good looking and  renowned as you needs to be extra careful to look out for the Dora Maars of this world! Oh, by the way, I saw a lovely interview on Sky with your girlfriend, Nicole, just before the Monaco Grand Prix. She looked the part, mate – side cleavage, matching hat and suit, big smile. You’ve done well there! She's everything as gorgeous as Francoise Gilot! I have a print of a charcoal drawing of her by Picasso in my room and it is a thing to behold.”



Francoise Gilot -charcoal drawing by Picasso


Hamilton did not dignify the remarks with any comment.

Later on that evening, as he sat in his jet flying over the French Riviera, Hamilton’s mind went slowly over what his friend Dewhurst had said.Nothing in his demeanour would have revealed how he felt, but as Dewhurst spoke, he had felt his chest tighten and his temples throb. He couldn’t bring himself to disclose to anyone that the Nicole Scherzinger situation he was in was, uncannily, a resounding echo of the Picasso/Maar situation.

“You couldn’t put a cigarette paper between the two women for the love of God,” he thought. “As I live and breathe, Nicole Scherzinger is Dora Maar reincarnated."

The pilot’s voice came through on the plane’s speakers. “It’s past midnight, Lewis, but guess what? Your lovely girlfriend, Nicole, has sailed up from Monte Carlo and is in the Nice airport terminal waiting for you. Isn't that nice?”

Hamilton lowered his head into his hands.

Gitau
7 June 2012