My father，Winston Churchill，began his love affair with painting in his 40s，amid disastrous circumstances. As First Lord of the Admiralty in 1915，he was deeply involved in a campaign in the Dardanelles that could have shortened the course of a bloody world war. But when the mission failed，with great loss of life，Churchill paid the price，both publicly and privately. He was removed from the admiralty and effectively sidelined.
Overwhelmed by the catastrophe—“I thought he would die of grief，”said his wife，Clementine– he retired with his family to Hoe Farm，a country retreat in Surrey. There，as Churchill later recalled，“The muse of painting came to my rescue!”
Wandering in the garden one day，he chanced upon his sister-in-law sketching with watercolors. He watched her for a few minutes，then borrowed her brush and tried his hand. The muse had cast her spell!
Churchill soon decided to experiment with oils. Delighted with this distraction from his dark broodings，Clementine rushed off to buy whatever paints she could find.
For Churchill，however，the next step seemed difficult as he contemplated with unaccustomed nervousness the blameless whiteness of a new canvas. He started with the sky and later described how“very gingerly I mixed a little blue paint on the palette，and then with infinite precaution made a mark about as big as a bean upon the affronted snow-white shield. At that moment the sound of a motor car was heard in the drive. From this chariot stepped the gifted wife of Sir John Lavery.
“‘Painting!’she declared.‘But what are you hesitating about?Let me have the brush– the big one.’Splash into the turpentine，wallop into the blue and the white，frantic flourish on the palette，and then several fierce strokes and slashes of blue on the absolutely cowering canvas. Anyone could see it could not hit back. The spell was broken. I seized the largest brush and fell upon my victim with berserk fury. I have never felt any awe of a canvas since.”
At that time，John Lavery– a Churchill neighbor and celebrated painter– was tutoring Churchill in his art. Later，Lavery said of his unusual pupil：“Had he chosen painting instead of statesmanship，I believe he would have been a great master with the brush.”
In painting，Churchill had discovered a companion with whom he was to walk for the greater part of the years that remained to him. After the war，painting would offer deep solace when，in 1921，the death of his mother was followed two months later by the loss of his and Clementine‘s beloved three-year-old daughter，Marigold. Battered by grief，Winston took refuge at the home of friends in Scotland，finding comfort in his painting. He wrote to Clementine：“I went out and painted a beautiful river in the afternoon light with crimson and golden hills in the background. Many tender thoughts my darling one of you & yr sweet kittens. Alas I kept feeling the hurt of the Duckadilly [Marigold’s pet name].”
Life and love and hope slowly revived，and in September 1922 I was born. This was also the year that Winston bought Chartwell，the beloved home he was to paint in all its different aspects for the next 40 years.
My father must have felt a glow of gratification when in the mid 1920s he won first prize in a prestigious amateur art exhibition held in London. Entries were anonymous，and some of the judges insisted that Winston‘s picture– one of his first of Chartwell– was the work of a professional，not an amateur，and should be disqualified. In the end，they agreed to rely on the artist’s honesty and were delighted when they learned that the picture had been painted by Churchill.
Historians have called the decade after 1929，when the Conservative government fell and Winston was out of office，his wilderness years. Politically he may have been wandering in barren places，a lonely fighter trying to awaken Britain to the menace of Hitler，but artistically that wilderness bore abundant fruit. During these years he often painted in the south of France. Of the 500-odd canvases extant，roughly 250 date from 1930 to 1939. One，“The Loup River，Alpes Maritimes，”is owned by the Tate Gallery in London.
In 1953，during his second prime ministry，my father had a stroke，and I went with him to the south of France where he convalesced. After five days I wrote sadly in my diary：“Papa is wretched. His paints have been untouched.”
Once more the muse，and the magical light of the Riviera，came to his rescue. The next day Winston sent a telegram to Clementine：“Have at last plunged into a daub.”
Painting remained a joy to Churchill to the end of his life.“Happy are the painters，”he had written in his book Painting as a Pastime，“for they shall not be lonely. Light and color，peace and hope，will keep them company to the end，or almost to the end，of the day.”And so it was for my father.
* Mary Soames，fifth child of Winston and Clementine Churchill，is Chairman of Trustees of the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust.
Mary Soames