It is rare for someone to live up to their reputation – but Jack Vettriano was every bit as colourful as the headlines suggested.
His life, I discovered, really did imitate his art.
Within an hour of chatting to him, the world-famous Fife artist had asked if he could paint me.
His sudden death last week at 73, days before his homecoming exhibition in Methil was due to open, has left a huge void in Scotland’s creative landscape.
Those who knew the man behind the easel can only hope the much-loved but complex character is at peace.
‘He asked what I would be wearing’
I first spoke to Jack in late 2016, after writing him a letter asking to interview him about his return to painting.
He was notoriously difficult to reach on the phone, and, I later discovered, kept unsociable hours – so I opted for pen and paper.
A few days after posting my handwritten request through the letterbox of his grand Edinburgh townhouse, I received a polite reply by text message, signed ‘J Vettriano’.
Thanking me for my “kind note”, he suggested we meet at his favourite haunt in the Scottish capital, Café St Honore.
We set a date for the following month, and I expected that to be it.
Yet he went on to ask what I would be wearing to our interview; if I would “dress nicely”; and, to my astonishment, if I would like to be the subject of one of his paintings.
I politely declined the request – and numerous subsequent requests – to be his next “muse”.
I didn’t doubt the abilities of the talented artist, whose most famous piece, The Singing Butler, sold for £750,000 at auction.
However, his preference was to paint women in various states of undress.
As a journalist, I have had many memorable encounters over the years, but none quite as noteworthy.
He would message very late at night or as early as 5.30am, when he said he woke naturally to paint.
He pushed the boundaries during many of our interactions but was also sensitive, warm and humble.
He was uncomfortable with fame and nervous of being caught off guard, he said.
Shunned by the art establishment, he was desperate to come across the “right way”.
Jack Vettriano denies Lothario reputation
After cancelling at the last minute on numerous occasions, citing both his physical and mental health, I eventually met him at his London apartment the following summer.
He described the sprawling red brick Battersea property as his “bachelor pad”, telling me it was his escape from Scotland, where he was too often recognised.
The flat was tastefully decorated but not grand and smelled of fresh flowers. It was filled with an eclectic mix of antiques and hundreds of books about the art world.
A pair of black patent, slingback Christian Louboutin stilettos – a core feature of his more risqué pieces – had pride of place in the living room.
He told me he had bought them for his “models” to wear.
During my interview for the Mail on Sunday, where I worked at the time, he opened up about his struggles with alcohol, drugs and mental health.
Some celebrities are keen to defend their actions, but Jack was remarkably honest.
He revealed Billy Connolly, who he painted in 2016, helped him kick his drinking habit.
He also claimed he was not “the Lothario I’m made out to be”, insisting he had only had four relationships in the previous 12 years.
“Each one of them has been my muse,” he added.
Addressing the subject of many of his pieces, he said: “You need to paint what moves you, and attractive women move me.
“I don’t see my paintings of role play as particularly pornographic – that’s just what some couples do on a Saturday night.
“All my life I have craved that sense of feminine power – I idolise and love the flick of their hair, their painted nails, the way they move.”
Kirkcaldy conviction shame
He told me he was “deeply embarrassed” about his drink-driving conviction in Kirkcaldy in 2012, stating: “I didn’t think about what I was doing before I went out and I should never have done it.”
He also revealed: “Drink and drugs have never been the main issue for me. It’s my own mind. I think creative people go through highs and lows.’
“People have their own ideas about me, but I wasn’t a drinker when I was young.
“When my friends would be in the pub, I would be teaching myself to paint. I have lived my life the wrong way round.”
Shunned by the art world, he was dogmatic about his contribution, stating: “No one has made an impact on Scottish art the way I have. If the National Galleries really cared about the people of Scotland – the taxpayers that they represent – they would have one of mine on show in Edinburgh.
He also told me he felt “very blessed to have lived this life”.
After my piece was published in June 2017, he messaged to thank me for “making me sound good”, noting, “I’m an artist, not a wordsmith”.
We spoke on the phone a few times in the years that followed, but each time Jack said he wasn’t in the “right place” to talk on the record.
The last time I heard from him, he was at his home in Nice, where his body was found on Saturday.
He told me the sunshine and anonymity of the French resort suited him best.
I am reminded of what he said during our interview nearly eight years ago, when he admitted: “I have experienced things I never dreamed I would as a working-class miner’s son.
“In spite of what people say, wealth is a measure of success, and I am entirely self-made.”
Conversation