This is not the final work, that coarse, vexed canvas exiled to the attic, cut into pieces and burned by his darling Clementine in a barbaristic fit of pique. No, this is the precursor, the preamble, a hurried sketch, rapid-fire intervention between artist and sitter. This all that remains of Sutherland's daring. His erasure of the pugilist orator, Tory grandee, and replacement with an old man in a rumpled coat, all grandiosity muted. This and the photographs of the unveiling, gravelly recordings of Churchill's grave praise when gifted it for his 80th. “A remarkable example of modern art.” His gruff Marlborough drawl, leaden weight to his words. Remarkable magnanimity for a work deemed malignant, and his wife deemed fit only for a bonfire. The finest hours. So much to so few. Never in the histories. Instead, a neutered bulldog. Antique Victorian. Spent statesman. In its beginning, his ending. Little wonder he hated it.