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Henry Park and Francis Field coasted through their respective lives. From birth to death, they lived a life so removed from the reality of the majority of their fellow Englishmen and women as to be absurd. Their existence was absurd.

They were both sent to boarding school as youngsters in the 50s - a privilege paid for by their families’ respective wealth; a wealth that, for reasons of brevity, can only here be described as enormous and somewhat smeared with the stains of history. At school, they learned to speak and express themselves with supreme confidence; a wide lexical range and ability to confuse and confound those who listened to them with their linguistic dexterity. But most of the boarders were capable of this - here, in this hot house of pubescence, they were not unique; however, though not unique within this milieu, outside of this odd context of the public school, it was drilled into them that they were in fact unique, special individuals all destined for a life of success. In fact, they were made to understand that they weren’t even destined for success - rather, their successful lives that lay ahead were quite literally there, waiting for them. Aside from all the interesting words they learned to use at school, the pair were fairly average students; whereas some excelled in the sciences or the arts, neither had enough within themselves to dedicate themselves properly to master a particular skill of subject. Although these boys were all backed with supreme wealth and prestige, that counted little when faced with a piano or mathematical problem; no amount of ancestral influence and prominence could necessarily compel a boy to do something if they really didn’t want to. And Henry Park and Francis Field were similar in this manner of laziness.

When it came to decisions, their masters at school made them. Grades were sufficiently inflated - proportional to donations given - and a place at Oxbridge beckoned. It was just a matter of choosing which college took their fancy. It was at university, then, that the two boys met.

As History of Art scholars, they spent a lot of time considering works of the past masters. And during this period, they came to realise how relatively straightforward life at university was: a few lectures and seminars and whatnot during the week; look and think and read about some paintings over the weekend; maybe a little writing if necessary. In between all of that: dinner parties, leisure time. And possibly the best thing of all: they didn’t even have to pay for any of it.

By their second year, they were both feeling a little anxious about their respective futures. They enjoyed university life: the easy weeks, the long breaks, the freedom to explore subjects of their choosing; plainly: they could do whatever they fancied.

Together they looked at old Renaissance paintings, described lines as ‘beautiful’, ‘spectacular’, ‘powerful’; the use of colour as ‘mesmeric’, ‘joyful’, ‘clever’, ‘reminiscent’. At first, it felt a little false, but they soon understood the grammar, the rules of the game, and quick as a flash, they had become experts of a period, of a painter, of a style. People would seek their opinions. People would offer trips to Italy to visit collections. All these things fell into their laps and it was all purest fabrication. The art that they displayed to the world, was really better described as being the art of fooling an audience. If they could employ their rich command of language, people were easily persuaded of an artist’s brilliance, and as they were mediators of this brilliance, so too they were able to attain an admiration for being the conduit.