Top painters talk about their favourite recipes

By MARGIE THOMSON deputy books editor

Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are, French gourmet Anthelme Brillat-Savarin opined in the early years of the 19th century. It is a maxim worth repeating almost 200 years later, perhaps more than ever, as the variety of ingredients available means our choices are expressions of our own desires, not so much of simple necessity.

Veteran wine, food and art writer Keith Stewart has put Brillat-Savarin's truism to the test with a lavish feast of a book prepared with photographer/publisher Craig Potton.

The Food of Art: New Zealand Painters and their Food (Craig Potton Publishing, $39.95) introduces us to the work, personalities and favourite recipes of 16 New Zealand painters.

Stewart was born to write such a book, combining knowledgeable, bouncy art essays with zesty little asides about each artist's relationship with food.

Wine buffs will agree or contend with Stewart's choices of accompaniment: "Might I suggest Te Mata Cape Crest Sauvignon Blanc 1998 if you're looking for perfection?" he advises for Monique Jansen's Ponsonby marinated fish.

As far as we know, what Brillat-Savarin did not say was that he could also deduce personality through an artist's work.

This would be a far more contentious statement, although Stewart himself acknowledges that media voyeurism makes much of the romantic notion that art is an extension of personality, the logical conclusion being that if you get to know the artist more, you move closer to understanding their art.

Bolstered by popular beliefs about Freudian psychiatry, this translates into a perfect excuse for delving into the private lives of artists.

And so, delightfully, it allows us to peep through the keyhole that is Potton's lens, into the studios, kitchens and dining rooms of John Reynolds, Richard Killeen, Seraphine Pick, Pat Hanly, Philip Trusttum, Monique Jansen, Gerda Leenards, Jacqueline Fahey, Denys Watkins, Katherine Madill, John Parker, Grahame Sydney, Simon McIntyre, Pauline Thompson, Julia Morrison and Chris Heaphy.

It's fun trying to find the words to bind the recipes to the paintings.

The odd thing is that in almost every case the painter looks like just the kind of person who would have chosen their particular dish.

Thus, untidily vivacious John Reynolds offers the spirited Pasta alla Puttanesca (Whore's Pasta); Richard Killeen, whose work Stewart describes as "very simple, very powerful ... honest," delivers a broiled organic chicken with potatoes and veges. Skinny, model-like Seraphine Pick whips up curried vegetables and fried tofu and sweetly austere Kathryn Madill picks a weed salad from her garden.

Blenheim painter John Parker's works represent touchable substance - he is a pragmatic dreamer in love with honest simplicity - and he cooks up a fillet steak.

Hearty-looking Gerda Leenards, whose paintings Stewart describes as "rich in flavour, effervescent indeed," offers us the most generous meal of all: oxtail stew, cassoulet of white beans and basil, green salad, amaretto dates and orange sauce and coffee tubruk.

Best of all, though, for elegant simplicity and art-world panache is Julia Morrison's Creme Roy, a raw egg cracked into a glass of well-chilled Brut champagne (preferably Pommery) a choice, we are told, redolent with historic allegory and it is perfect for Morrison, who combines severely svelte, black-clad stylishness with vigorous looks.

The ease with which this book shepherds us between art and food accentuates that the two are clearly natural companions with more in common than you may at first have thought.

Each must be ingested: food in a literal, physical way; art in a more cerebral way. Both must wend their way through one's senses: food is seen, smelled, tasted, masticated and fills up one's stomach. Art is experienced with the eye, then moves around in one's mind, permeating different levels of consciousness and understanding, touching one's emotions.

Each represents creative processes and individuality. Give two painters the same subject and two different interpretations will evolve. Give any two people the same ingredients, or even the same recipe, and two quite different meals will arrive on the table.

Here at home, in the interests of review, we chose a couple of recipes: Graham Sydney's fish and chips and Chris Heaphy's licorice ice cream. When you're focused on process, interesting things happen. You find that you never follow the recipe exactly. We don't have an electric fryer, for instance, so guesswork and judgment were called for. We had no sambucca, so we used brandy. And so on.

And that's okay, because cooking, like art, is a matter of personal interpretation. The sensibility of the artist is what makes a painting. The sensitivity of the cook is what makes the meal.

By their food shall we know them.