Jack Vettriano was a coal miner until Maggie Thatcher shut
down British Coal. He had to find something else to do.
I assume the old trout took credit for this serendipitous unintended outcome of her one-sided battle with Arthur Scargill, but whatever her motives, her actions gifted the world the beauty of Jack's art.
In the early years of the new century Jack lived in a castle near Burntisland overlooking the Firth of Forth. This seemed highly appropriate to me.
In 2002, when I was working in Scotland, I had lunch with my lovely wife at the Old Rectory Restaurant in Dysart. At the next table, also dining with a beautiful woman, was Jack Vettriano, famous artist and my hero.
Being so close to, and sharing a socially acceptable physiologic function (viz: eating) with someone so immensely talented and admired, somebody whose name and art will live on for as long as there are people who love beauty, was even more exciting than the time I was introduced to Ken Kearney, captain of the Australian Rugby League team. (I was 12 years old. Ken actually spoke to me. He said "fuck off, kid". But that's beside the point.)
Each of Jack's paintings is a whole novel expressed on a single canvas. Beautifully
rendered moments in time which incorporate all the loves, betrayals, happiness,
sadness, joys and tragedies of the characters portrayed.
Jack wrote, presumably in response to criticism of his
work by the cultural elitists at the Tate and at the National Gallery: "I just consider myself a
trader. I take my goods to the marketplace and try to get the best price I can.The greater glory of art doesn't come into it. That's not why I paint.
It's
wall decoration for me. I don't regard it as this big meaningful thing. My
subjects are men and women getting off, that's all. Mind you, some people don't
think sex is serious, but I happen to think it's terribly serious."
So do I.
(See: https://www.jackvettriano.com/)