Painting the Coronation Week, 2–6 May 2023

I hadn’t planned on painting the Coronation. It clashed with a murder mystery dinner party for Lisa’s birthday. But after being repeatedly asked by people if I was going to be there, I figured I could squeeze both events into one day . . .

What could possibly go wrong?

At the end of April, I was doing a large painting of a wet Northumberland Avenue. Walking back to the van, I saw a young man at his easel on the Trafalgar Square roundabout at the top of Whitehall where the Equestrian Statue of Charles I is situated.

It was Rob Pointon. He said he thought he was done with the military after his residency with the Queen’s Guard, but as we all know from Ken Howard, once you are in you are in – passed from one brigade to the next!

He had been commissioned by a regiment to paint the Coronation procession, so Rob was setting it up. He modestly said he wasn’t sure if it was a goer, but he was going to try from this spot. Whether he’d get permission to stay was up in the air.

He said I should paint the Coronation. He wasn’t the first to mention it. My mate Guy in Bath who I’d bumped into in the Silver Shop getting Lisa’s birthday present had said ‘Jesus Pete, Lisa’s birthday or not, you gotta do it! Lisa will understand.”

We were planning on having all the kids home for a murder mystery dinner on the night of the 6th of May. “Just try and get back for that, Pete!” she pleaded.

So, I was in! Now it gets a bit stressy. You just have no idea where you will or won’t be able to paint. I am getting old and seeing all those fluorescent jacket security guards, the van loads of police, the cordon ribbons, the crowd barriers . . . all makes me nervous, and I am getting fed up with picking fights.

Rob had mentioned that a spot by Nelson Mandela in Parliament Square could be good. So, on Tuesday 2 May after finishing the Northumberland Avenue painting, I trundled my stuff down there. Whitehall was sealed off to traffic, as was Parliament Square when I got there. Predictably, the raised bit where Mandela sits was cordoned off. So, I started to set up by Viscount Palmerston.

“Noooo!”

Without looking up I said, “A sentence would be nice. I’m not a dog.”

It wasn’t a security guard or a policeman but a flippin’ Heritage Warden. They had been delightful towards the end of the pandemic when I sheepishly asked if I could paint in Trafalgar Square:

“Of course! We love it,” they said.

To be fair, they had since changed their tune in Trafalgar Square now that the hirers had come back. He backtracked a bit and began frankly spluttering. He started to ‘um’ and ‘er’ and was audibly questioning himself as to whether someone could do an oil painting in Parliament Square.

He had not quite concluded one way or another when I said, “I really do not want a fight. Don’t sweat. If you are unhappy, I won’t.”

So, I left . . .

Well, I crossed the road and painted the same view from further back.

The sun came and went but it was weak and mainly a grey day. The square was being literally polished by road-sweeping trucks going round and round. I guessed they were getting it shiny for the big day. I painted until 6pm before scurrying to Soho where Ian was buying dinner for Baz and me at his club before his new-member credit ran out.

Earlier in the day, Rob had mentioned that as part of his commission, he was going to paint the troops of his regiment arriving at Waterloo Station for the rehearsal that night. After painting them arriving into the night, he would be too knackered to catch the rehearsal – perhaps I should have a go? He said something about 5am. Later that day, someone else I mentioned it to said something about 3am.

So, after our dinner, we drove to West Drayton and I was in bed by midnight, only to get up 1½ hrs later and head back into town. I parked the van behind Mall Galleries at 2.30am. I could hear stuff going on – orders being shouted. I walked around to The Mall. It was silent.

The street was full of thousands of troops of all sorts on and off horses. They were still. It was deadly quiet. There were various people watching dotted down The Mall. I whispered (you literally had to whisper) to a couple of women who had come to watch their son (and brother) as it would be their only chance.

“Have they been here long then?”

“Oh, hours.”

“?”

I walked around to the end of Northumberland Avenue. There was a wonderful view from the traffic island with the cast iron lamp looking back towards Admiralty Arch. A platoon stood in front of me facing the arch. The lighting was amazing. Clearly, my info about the timing was not bang on but I had my light, and I may get a bit of a go.

I had lost a wing nut from one of my easel legs the day before but with care, I could still just about manage. It was still deadly silent up until my easel collapsed with an audible crash! Paint, turps, medium and brushes flew everywhere . . .

A friendly policeman rushed over to help. I was in a fluster. He kindly said what a moment in time it would be to capture. After wiping bright orange paint from me, the easel, the brushes and the pavement, I set up again. A passer-by asked what I was painting. He answered his own question, “Looks like you’re painting yourself!” I had lost my sense of humour. In fact, I did not understand what he meant until the next day.

So, at 3.30am, I started painting. An order was given and the chaps in front of me marched off away under Admiralty Arch behind all the others. The lights went off and the road sweepers moved in to clear up the horse poo. I packed up and went back to the van having put three brush strokes onto the board. I sat in the van and tried to sleep.

That was not happening.

At 5am, I set off to find coffee and breakfast. It took me back nearly 30 years when I first painted London. I had left in the small hours and was painting The Strand at about 7am. There was this incredibly frustrated New Yorker who came up to me saying, “Christ, is there ANYWHERE to get breakfast in this place at this time?!”

Well, things have moved on a bit, but you still have to hunt to find a Starbucks that’s open at 6am.

I was set up in the same place on Parliament Square at 7.30am. It was a bright sunny day and I worked on a new board.

To my amazement, after polishing Parliament Square for a good four hours the day before, they had now reopened it to traffic. But it was quite light, and I painted as people walked to work and on until the tourists arrived.

Then, the protesters arrived. The anti-Tories camped on the traffic island at the end of Parliament Street. A Remainer in blue and gold over the road to them. Later, Stop Oil arrived from marching down Whitehall and did a couple of circuits of the square before the anti-ULEZ gang turned up in an old fire engine and some other tasty gas guzzlers.

As the sun moved round, I moved to the grass by Abraham Lincoln and painted towards the doors of Westminster Abbey. The square was packed. I went in search of anything to eat. The only places nearby were those on Westminster Bridge Road by the station. I wrote off Tesco as it had a queue 30-people-long out of its doors. I bought a horrid wrap from a snack shop further towards the bridge although it was keenly priced at £2.80!

On the way back, there was a comical scene of some megaphone banter between the anti-ULEZ and anti-Tories tribes . . .

“Yes, kick the Tories out and get rid of the ULEZ!”

“Yes, kick the Tories out . . . but not sure I agree on the ULEZ bit!”

As I got back to the easel some Stop Oilers were being arrested on Great George Street to the supporting cheers of their comrades, along with protestations that “this is what happens now when you protest!” The anti-ULEZers were still circulating, and the Stop Oilers pointed out that traffic on the square was now worse.

I moved back to my original spot and worked on the previous day’s board. Just before packing up at 7pm, a woman stopped to say, “Good grief. You’ve been here all day. I passed you on the way to work this morning.”

I popped back to the van and put some clean clothes on so I could head – for the first time – to the Royal Portrait Society’s Private View. I was overwhelmed by the amazing portraits and decided I should resign my membership. The RP is brilliant, but not me, and more importantly I did not think I was doing any good for them. I don’t paint portraits FFS!

I met a Curtis Holder there – he made me laugh. Alistair and Tim Benson were going for a pint, even though Tim looked more tired than me. He has an 8-month-old that thinks sleep is overrated and a 3-year-old who thinks 5:15am is a lie-in.

“Pete?”

“Thanks, but I’d better not”.

I cannot remember why I had to be in Bath on Thursday, but I was back in London Friday early morning. Roads were being closed but for some reason, I thought as long as you can get in, they will always let you get out.

As I headed for Carlton House Terrace, I kept hitting ‘road closed’ but I kept on and was amazed to eventually find myself heading down Haymarket from Piccadilly Circus. Would they let me turn right onto Pall Mall at the bottom?

Yes!

And left into Waterloo Place?

Yes!

And there I was – triumphantly parked at 17 Carlton House Terrace (round the back of Mall Galleries) in the heart of it all, just as it was being locked down.

There was only ever one thing I was ever going to paint. It’s not the ceremony or the procession that tickles me. It’s the complete fruitcakes that watch it. So, I took my gear to the other side of The Mall and set up amongst tents, and people draped in red, white and blue. The campers were brilliant – the atmosphere nothing but joy. Many of them had been to many previous royal occasions – jubilees, weddings, funerals . . .

The man in his mid-80s in a Union Flag suit (I think his name was Joe) stood still for me, and the three ladies with the red, white and blue kitten ears drank prosecco and ate nibbles – offering both to me on numerous occasions.

It rained. The brollies went up. It stopped. They came down. The sun came out. More tents arrived. Everyone was chatting and making new friends.

There was a man Chris who I thought was with a group of people. It turned out he wasn’t. He had just made friends with the people around him that he met. He asked me about the painting, and he spoke about the common bond that pulls people together in these events.

I said I had painted the Queen’s funeral to which he replied, “Well, that’s why I am here. I was there too but I was marching all day. It was a very sombre and sad time and of course, I did not get to see any of it.”

“So, what’s the flag you are draped in?”

“It’s the Falkland Islands flag. That’s where I have come from. I am harbour master at Port Stanley.”

“Have you always lived there?”

“No, I went down with the task force and remained.”

I became a landmark – “We’re by the artist!” – and sight of any gravel in front of me disappeared. I escaped to get some food in Trafalgar Square leaving my easel amongst the masses. When I returned, I finished the 12×16 off.

It was now a lovely evening and I turned where I was and faced west. The sun was making halos around heads and glowing through the plane trees in the distance. I desperately tried to finish it, working until darkness when I couldn’t get any more.

I wondered if I had enough to work from memory later. Could I do a night scene now? I headed back to the van to get my light.

The timetable said The Mall would be opened at 6am on the day, so when I walked out past the Duke of York Column, I asked several police and security guards when were they sealing it off tonight or was it that they were sealing it off at 6am? No one had any idea.

I returned to The Mall but could not see a view and decided I would be better off getting drunk so I could sleep in the van with a view to making sure I could get in early the next morning. Two pints and a merlot, quickly ordered when they called time, did the trick. A dirty burger from McDonald’s on The Strand, and then the back seat of the van, under a duvet, legs not quite straight due to the width, and car keys in hand for when I move and set the alarm off.

It was a broken sleep but more comfortable than the ladies on the gravel of The Mall in their polythene survival bags.

I was back in St James’s Park by 6am, my previous day’s spot now swallowed up by tents, and people now twice as deep. It’s like Glasto. You see a small space to put your tent up, a bit worried you may be encroaching on your neighbour and when you get back there are two more tents between you. I was a tad stressed at this point. Where would I paint?

I headed a short way towards Buckingham Place and found a mound. From here, I had a good view into the distance . . . But then, of course, everyone else would also get a good view of the procession here too. So, I knew it would not be long before I was staring at the back of someone’s head. But this did mean people would congregate here, and I thought it would make a great shot, so I set up 20 yards away.

So, at 7.30am, I set about painting thousands of people it seemed one by one: on dad’s shoulders, eating a picnic, watching uncle doing magic tricks, sheltering from the rain (brollies up), drying off in the sun (brollies down).

I was approached by the world’s press on both those days. All, apparently, asking the same three questions which seemed to mean the same thing:

“Why have you chosen to paint here today?”

“What is it about today that has made you paint?”

‘What are your feelings on painting today?”

There is one thing that separates the UK press from the rest of the world’s press. They all start with “What is your name?” and “Where are you from?” But the UK press always insists on a “I am sorry I have to ask this, but can you tell men how old you are?” After the Queen’s death, I asked a reporter why they had to ask me that. I never really got a satisfactory answer.

It was 1pm and I had not had anything to eat or drink. A young lady gave me a small can: “This is for you”. It was a pina colada. I necked it. I nearly fell over.

Another woman who told me I was ‘Pete the Street’ introduced herself as Mary-Anne Bartlett, the Art Safari lady. She was just back from somewhere exotic. We chatted and I mentioned I had not eaten. She produced a protein bar that had travelled all around the world with her. It was more delicious than she’d promised. Then a young lad who had overheard the conversation produced a packet of cheese and onion crisps. In the fore of the painting, I had caught a family. They all came up at different times watching my progress and pointing each other out. Towards the end, the mother asked if she could buy it.

‘We are Muslim, and we do not like eyes in paintings. You have captured us, but our eyes are not in it.”

“Well, there’s a new market,” thought I!

I had arranged to meet Toby and Sim by the van at 2:30pm to hit the road for Bath, don our costumes for Lisa’s murder mystery dinner and find out who dunnit.

It was 2pm. The painting was finished. I had planned this perfectly . . .

Then, Toby and Sim phoned: “We are at Pall Mall, but they won’t let us through the steel gates.”

I was sure we could sort this but then mid-conversation my phone ran out of charge.

There was a security barrier at Carlton House Terrace and Waterloo Place. I reckoned I could talk my way through that easily enough. It was only really for the TV crews parked up there. But could I get through the next one?

I’d go along to Carlton Gardens and check at the barrier with Pall Mall. I asked police and security guards on the way and realised no one knows what the overall plan is so there is great opportunity to blag.

At the Carlton Gardens / Pall Mall barrier, I found the top man and asked,“Will you let me through here as I need to get to St James’s?”

“Sure. I got no problem.”

My phone was now charged back at the van.

“Toby, walk west and meet me at the Carlton Gardens gate”.

I opened the first barrier for myself. I drove down Carlton House Terrace, slowly but with confidence past police and security guards up to the gate at Pall Mall. Security were asking Toby and Sim for ID when they jumped in the van. We now headed west on Pall Mall through a swarm of pedestrians. We drove slowly. They got out of the way. we were loving it. At the end, a security guard stopped us.

“Hi. Yes. We are just going up to Piccadilly.”

“Well, I tell you what. I’ll walk in front and clear the way for you.”

We now had a security escort!

Sim filmed our progress up St James’s. At the top, the security guards on the gate looked, to say the least, perplexed – a kind “WTF?’ expression. Our escort spoke to them. They said something back. He looked sheepish and made a quick exit.

“There’s no way you are coming through here, mate. The West End is closed to traffic. It may reopen at 5 or 6.”

“What do I do?’

“You ain’t going through here.”

He did not tell me what to do with the van, so we reversed 50 yards and took a left onto Bennet Street. Perhaps we could join Piccadilly at the Ritz and head west? Toby and Sim were not convinced of my plan and sure enough, 50 yards later, we hit another barrier at the Ritz. We really liked the person in charge there. She was beaming.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?”

“Going home?”

“You can’t go through here. The West End is closed to traffic until this evening.”

“Ah, but that’s too late. Look at our faces.” [3 sad faces] “We want to go home.”

“Well, I am so sorry, but you can’t.”

“But it’s my wife’s birthday and I am going to be in such trouble.”

“I am very sorry, my love, but no.”

We toyed with putting high-viz jackets which I keep in the van to make us look ‘official’, but it was a bit too late for that now. Besides, without some permit, there was no way we were going anywhere.

We parked up. Green Park was closed so we walked to Bond Street, tubed it to Paddington, and headed home to Bath. On the train, I looked at the area on Google Maps to see a sea of road closures all the way up to Hyde Park. What on earth was I thinking?! But I had managed to do 2½ paintings and I was going to be home in time for dinner.

As it turned out, ‘Ford Escort’, the American chauffeur and male escort (AKA Ollie Brown, eldest son to Lisa and Peter) was the murderer.

* * * * *

I’m doing a strictly limited-edition (of 30) print of ‘The Coronation Crowds, St James’s Park, 6th May 2023’ – ORDER HERE