For sheer creativity and totality of involvement, 'Rolf's Cartoon

Host: The warehouse smelled faintly of turpentine and dust, a space where paintings leaned against the walls like sleeping memories. The light from the high windows fell in pale ribbons, catching the edges of half-finished canvases, easels, and forgotten brushes left to dry. Outside, the rain whispered on the corrugated roof, a slow, steady rhythm that felt almost like breathing.

Jack stood near the far corner, a cigarette hanging between his fingers, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the faintest smear of paint on his forearm. Jeeny was by the window, staring at a large portrait propped against the wall — a woman’s face, regal but distant, rendered in cool blues and silvers.

Between them, a radio crackled softly, an old interview playing through static. Rolf Harris’s voice, cheerful and steady, filled the room:

“For sheer creativity and totality of involvement, ‘Rolf’s Cartoon Club’ with HTV in Bristol was an amazing show to work on, but I think the ‘Rolf on Art’ series, culminating in the painting of the Queen’s portrait to celebrate her 80th birthday, just nudges into the favourite spot.”

The words faded into the gentle hiss of static.

Jeeny turned, her eyes glimmering with thought.

Jeeny: “You know… there’s something beautiful in that. To spend your life creating, and still have a favorite — something that felt more alive than the rest.”

Jack: “Beautiful? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just nostalgia dressed as accomplishment. Artists always cling to their favorite work because it’s the one that made them feel less useless.”

Jeeny: “That’s harsh.”

Jack: “It’s real. Every artist I’ve known spends half their life chasing a moment that justifies the chaos inside them. The rest is just noise.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, beating against the metal like soft applause. Jeeny crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under her bare feet. She picked up one of Jack’s brushes, still wet with color, and twirled it gently between her fingers.

Jeeny: “You really think art is just chaos control?”

Jack: “It’s therapy with an audience. We call it creativity so we don’t have to admit it’s self-medication.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people are healed by it — not just the artist. Think of how many watched that series, how many felt inspired seeing a man paint the Queen and still talk about cartooning like it was sacred.”

Jack: “You think painting a Queen makes art noble? Come on, Jeeny. Art doesn’t become more meaningful because it wears a crown.”

Jeeny: “It becomes meaningful because it connects — between generations, between people who will never meet. That portrait wasn’t about royalty. It was about honor. About an artist saying: ‘This is how I see her. This is how I see devotion.’”

Jack: “Or it was about legacy — one last public statement. You think Harris cared about devotion? He cared about being remembered.”

Host: Jeeny placed the brush down slowly. Her voice softened, but there was steel beneath it.

Jeeny: “You talk as if wanting to be remembered is shameful. What’s wrong with leaving something behind that outlives you?”

Jack: “Nothing, if it’s honest. But too often, it’s just ego with paint on it. Real art doesn’t aim for immortality. It just exists — raw, fleeting, human.”

Jeeny: “But the artist exists too. Their fingerprints, their choices, their spirit — all of that lives inside the work. Isn’t that immortality in its truest form?”

Jack: “No. That’s illusion. The artist dies. The audience forgets. The only thing that remains is the pigment. And even that fades.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you paint?”

Host: The question hung in the air, sharp and clean as glass breaking. Jack froze for a moment. His hand trembled slightly, the cigarette burning too close to his fingers before he crushed it out.

Jack: “Because I have to.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You have to. That’s the point. You create because something inside you needs to breathe. So did Harris. So did every artist who’s ever touched a brush. You call it therapy; I call it existence.”

Host: The sound of the rain began to fade. A thin ray of sunlight broke through the window, falling across the portrait by the wall. The painted Queen’s eyes seemed to glow faintly, as if catching a secret light.

Jeeny: “I remember watching ‘Rolf on Art’ as a kid. It wasn’t the technique that moved me — it was how much he loved it. He didn’t talk about art like a profession. He talked about it like it was air.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t make art better. It just makes failure more painful.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the pain is the price of beauty. Maybe that’s what total involvement means — giving so much of yourself that even if the world misunderstands you, you’ve still touched something true.”

Jack: “You sound like you worship suffering.”

Jeeny: “Not suffering. Sincerity. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jack moved closer to the portrait, his eyes scanning the brushwork, the delicate shadows, the faint imperfections that gave it life. He reached out as though to touch it, then stopped — his hand hovering inches away.

Jack: “You ever notice how portraits never capture the truth? No matter how skilled the artist, they can’t paint what’s unseen — fear, longing, guilt. The Queen probably sat for hours, smiling politely, while thinking about death, politics, or just the ache of time. But the canvas will never tell that story.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. Not through the subject — but through the artist. Every stroke says something about who they were in that moment. Maybe that’s the real portrait — not of the Queen, but of Harris himself.”

Jack: “So what do you see in it, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “I see a man who gave everything he had to something fleeting. I see gratitude. I see a goodbye disguised as celebration.”

Host: Jack turned his gaze toward her. His eyes softened — just a fraction, but enough.

Jack: “You really believe that? That creation is gratitude?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every artist says thank you in color.”

Host: The room grew warmer as the light shifted. The rain had stopped entirely, leaving a hush so deep it felt almost sacred. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight, like tiny constellations suspended between breath and stillness.

Jack sat down on a paint-stained stool. Jeeny joined him, folding her hands in her lap. They both stared at the portrait — at its stillness, its quiet defiance against decay.

Jack: “You know, I used to think my best work was behind me. That what I’d done five years ago was the peak — the thing I’d never surpass. Maybe that’s what he meant, too — that the Queen’s portrait wasn’t about pride, it was about peace. The acceptance that one moment might be enough.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Some works aren’t about reaching higher. They’re about arriving.”

Jack: “Arriving?”

Jeeny: “Yes. When an artist finally finds stillness — not silence, not surrender — just stillness. The kind that says: this is who I am, and it’s enough.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why he called it his favorite. Not because it was the greatest, but because it was the most complete version of himself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sunlight deepened, turning golden now, touching every corner of the studio — the brushes, the spilled paint, the forgotten sketches pinned to the wall. Jack and Jeeny sat quietly, their faces softened by the same light that once touched another artist’s hands, in another time, in another room.

Jeeny reached out and placed her hand gently over Jack’s.

Jeeny: “Maybe someday, you’ll have a favorite too. Not because it’s perfect — but because it feels like you finally spoke your truth.”

Jack: “Maybe I already have. Maybe it’s this one.”

Host: He nodded toward the Queen’s portrait. The canvas shimmered faintly in the golden light, as if alive.

Jeeny smiled — a small, knowing smile.

Jeeny: “Then you’ve arrived.”

Host: Outside, the rain clouds parted. The sky turned a soft pale blue, and the air smelled of earth and paint. In the silence that followed, the studio felt less like a place of work and more like a sanctuary — a place where the living and the remembered met, quietly, under the same light.

Jack reached for his brush, dipped it into the color still wet on the palette, and began to paint again — not out of ambition, not out of restlessness, but out of peace.

And as the brush moved, the light shifted — like the world itself was leaning closer, just to watch.