Portrait of the artist as a young blog

Yesterday I was walking in the sunlight through one of the city's leafier parks with a very good friend. As well as discussing Yonkers-born author Richard Yates, motherhood, the world's mass bruises, we talked animatedly about the artist, and discussed various aspects of art, including portraiture. I was reminded in the course of the conversation - as we passed veiled women, diplomats, government employees, hyper-active school children, and appreciative tourists - of my own modest history of having a portrait done, though none were commissioned by me, I hasten to add. Anyway, the first portrait came about when a young photographer asked to 'do' me in his squat, which is now a major police station, and where he took these slightly over-devoted - I thought - photographs of me. I see his name everywhere now and still think with a guarded smile whenever I do. I actually saw him in the flesh years later. His profile - on the back of a portrait of Princess Diana - was massive. He pretended not to know me. Anyway, the second portrait was a very delicate gouache done by a man who is now a production designer. I was made to wear a thin-striped jean jacket, I seem to remember. Funnily enough, it was done in the same building where Princess Diana lived when courting Prince Charles. I don't know where that one is now, either. The third portrait was a sculpture done by a muscular devotee of art as an extension of might. He 'did' my friend in the park, too, by strange coincidence. (Neither of us have our heads now, as a matter of fact: they are both across the ocean, we believe.) But the most precious portrait done of me ... came in the form of several portraits-as-one by the artist. They were of us both, in fact. You see - what am I trying to tell you? - we are united at times even in her work.